The Eyes Have It
by IronAmerica
Summary: A serial killer is making his rounds of Palm City, and ARK soldiers are his favorite target.  As the clock ticks on, another man finds himself in the killer's sights.
1. Somebody's Watching Me

Hey, it's a new story! Just in time for April Fool's day.

Due to circumstances, WtchCool has declined to beta.

This story will deserve the M-rating eventually. Fair warning.

- o – o -

The Eyes Have It

Chapter One: Somebody's Watching Me

If there was one thing to be said for the Palm City public schools, it was that they had the amazing ability to unite their students. Over the past year, it had become even more apparent that they were good at it; one elementary school in particular came to mind. (That this unity came at the expense of one student was largely ignored by the residents of Palm City.)

The single unifying factor among the public school system was the mutual fear and loathing of the resident villain and murderer, Chess. And unfortunately for Trip Faraday, everyone was certain that his father was Chess; and, deceased or not, they still weren't going to let up.

Thus, Trip was running from some of his classmates for the third time that week. His mother always asked him why he looked so out of breath after a bus ride home from school, but never bothered to ask if he ever rode the bus. (Getting on it in the morning was bad enough, in the ten-year-old's mind.) The simple truth was, he always ran home from school—the shortcuts he'd found made it easier to arrive just as the bus pulled away if he sprinted for most of the trip.

Unfortunately, he'd made the mistake of taking a shortcut past a local diner. Some of the kids from school—the more militant ones that would've driven his dad nuts in a few years—had been hanging out. Trip had pulled his hood up, hoping that they wouldn't notice him.

Sadly, Ryan Craig spotted him. Ryan was a bit larger than the average fifth grader, and a lot meaner. Almost everyone hated him, but they were too afraid of him to stand up to him. If Ryan told them to beat Trip up, they'd do it.

Trip groaned under his breath as he felt one of the straps on his backpack catch on a fence he'd been attempting to climb over.

"Shit," he swore under his breath, not caring that his mother would kill him if she heard him swearing. Where was the Cape when he needed him? The ten-year-old wriggled out of his backpack, thankful that he'd left everything important at home or with Mrs. Debolt. His teacher was surprisingly cool about it, which made Trip think she was a bit more astute than everyone else in the school.

He sped up as he heard the fence jangling behind him, ducking into a side alley. The ten-year-old put on an extra burst of speed, ducking into an open doorway. Trip slid down the wall, panting in relief as the boys who'd been chasing him sped past, yelling at each other. Honestly, what was their problem? He was _ten_, for God's sake!

Of course, that meant nothing to idiots like that. For cryin' out loud, some of them had been from the high school!

After a few minutes, Trip stood up and peered out the door. No one was hanging around, which was a good thing. He retraced his footsteps carefully, only to realize he'd taken a wrong turn somewhere. Instead of the fence where he'd lost his backpack, he was facing a mountain of dirt.

Trip groaned and used some of the more interesting curses he'd picked up over the last few months under his breath. Well, if he climbed up the hill, he might be able to get his bearings. His mother was going to kill him if he was late…

The ten-year-old began climbing the dirt pile. He sat down at the top to catch his breath and swore again. (If his mom heard him, he'd be grounded for a month at least. And he _really_ needed to find a payphone now. Because there was _no_ way he was going to get home from here.)

He sighed and stood up. Unfortunately, his footing wasn't quite as sure as it could have been, and he slid down the other side of the mountain of dirt, tearing his jeans in the process. Trip came to a rest at the bottom of the hill and promptly began spitting out the dirt he'd gotten in his mouth on the slide down.

"Blegh," Trip groaned, spitting another clod of dirt out. He stood up, brushing his hands off on his jeans. There were some bright red scratches on his knees where his jeans had been torn open, but that didn't bother him.

In fact, there was very little that would get his attention at this point. All Trip could do was stare at the perfect rows of bodies lying in front of him. Three seconds later, Trip was on his knees and throwing up everything he'd eaten that day.

- o – o -

Being a switchboard operator at the ARK emergency call center was bound to give you the patience of a saint or drive you completely bonkers. That being said, Tom Jacobs wasn't looking forward to having his board light up again. Calls from the slums on the east end were never fun to respond to—too many drunks in that area not killing each other quickly enough.

"Hello, 911," he said into his mic, boredom tinging his voice. "How can I be of assistance?" After nearly a minute of the panicked breathing on the other end, Jacobs was about ready to write it up as another crank call when the babbling began.

Instead of some lady calling about her drunk of a husband beating up their drunk of a landlord (those happened every week, like clockwork), it was a kid babbling like the room was on fire. He couldn't get the words out fast enough, which was unfortunately faster than Jacobs could write them down.

"Wait a minute, slow down kid. Did you say _bodies_?" Jacobs asked, cutting through the panicked jumble that was slowly killing his hearing.

-__Ohgodohgod_—_whathappenedtotheireyes_?—_

Jacobs raised an eyebrow and looked at his monitor to make sure the call was being recorded. Now the day wasn't so boring after all…

-_I…I…Why are their eyes missing?—_

Oh _that_ was comforting, Jacobs thought as he forwarded the caller's location to a patrol in the area.

- o – o -

Dana Faraday paced around the bus stop, waiting for the next school bus to arrive. There was every possibility that Trip had caught a ride home on another bus (unlikely), or that he'd come on one of the city buses. If the latter scenario was the case, she was going to hug him tightly and then yell at him for taking such an unnecessary risk during the middle of a gang war.

She did hope he'd simply picked up baseball again and had simply forgotten to tell her about it, but wasn't holding out much hope. The public defender sighed, pausing at the crosswalk again. Her son was withdrawing into himself even more these days, and school wasn't helping any.

The public defender sighed and sat down on the bench. She was up again when the second school bus rumbled by without stopping. Her son was still en route from school, or he was missing. God knew what had happened to him, although there was much a ten-year-old could get up to in this day and age. (She brutally quashed the fear gnawing at her gut that said something terrible had happened to him. He was going to be fine. He was just…late.)

Dana waited at the bus stop for another five minutes before pulling her cell phone out. As she grabbed her coat and briefcase, she dialed Mrs. Debolt's number. Alice was fast becoming a pretty good friend; Dana had lost count of the times Mrs. Debolt had called her into school so she could get Trip herself. Given that it was probably safer for Trip, it was a good idea. Maybe the teacher had kept him after or something… Or maybe Trip had gotten a ride home from school with one of the other kids… Wait, no. That was a laugh. She didn't know anyone who'd do that for her son; Gerry was homeschooled, so getting Mrs. Blander to give him a ride was a no go.

The public defender was crossing the street when an ARK patrol car roared up to the stop sign, sirens blaring loud enough to wake the dead. Dana rolled her eyes and was about to move on when an officer stepped out of the vehicle. It was Detective Farris, the man who'd interviewed her after the drive-by nearly three weeks ago.

She frowned, wondering what the man was on Sycamore Boulevard for. Was it possible to immolate him with a thought…? Her animosity towards him hadn't lessened any in the three times they'd met since the drive-by. By all accounts, the feeling was mutual. He was a smarmy bastard, and—

"Mrs. Faraday?" Detective Farris asked, interrupting her train of thought. Dana nodded curtly, wondering if her scowl was showing. "You need to come with me." He looked unnaturally pale. (That would play into her private theory that everyone who worked for ARK was a vampire, oddly enough.)

"Actually, I have to go home and see if my son is there," Dana corrected him sharply, shutting her phone with a snap. She hadn't dialed Alice's cell number. Farris's face twisted into a grimace, and Dana felt her stomach twist uncomfortably. Oh god. Had some nutcase finally attacked her son for something he had _nothing_ to do with?

"Where's my son?" Dana barked, suddenly business-like and sharp. She was _not_ in one of her good moods now.

"Get in the car," Farris said. "I'll do my best to explain on the way. Trust me on this, though," he added as he slid into the driver's seat, "You're going to need to find a good counselor."

Dana really had to wonder what that had to do with anything, but was too preoccupied with thoughts of her son—lying on some slab in a morgue, dead—to really question the statement. What had happened to her son?

- o – o -

As soon as Dana saw her son sitting in one of the break rooms, she dropped everything and grabbed him up in one of the tightest hugs she'd ever given him. All the while, she whispered thanks to whatever god was listening that her little boy was alright. After a few minutes of holding Trip, she took a step back to study him.

Trip had a black eye that was beginning to swell, and his jeans were torn open at the knees. He also had dirt stains everywhere and a few scrapes to round everything out. Dana wondered what he'd been up to—ARK wouldn't have brought her here just for her son fighting in school, or in public. So what was wrong…?

Detective Farris entered the room, carrying a can of soda and two cups of coffee. He gave the soda to Trip, who just stared mutely at the drink. The detective gave the second cup of coffee to Dana, an apologetic look on his face.

"Over here," Farris muttered, seeing the look in Dana's eyes. When the two adults were seated at one of the tables at the far end of the room, he sighed. Dana noticed that he looked far older than he had two weeks ago, which didn't surprise her. ARK was currently embroiled in a gang war that was giving everyone who worked for them the overtime from hell.

"Alright," Dana said quietly. "What's up? Why is my son here?"

Farris grimaced. "It's a bit of a story," he said, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "The ARK switchboard got a call about half an hour ago. They thought it was a crank call, 'cause the kid on the other end was babbling something about eyes. Then they actually listened to what was going on." He took a sip of his coffee, grimacing at the flavor. "Mrs. Faraday, your son discovered some psychopath's body dump. All of the corpses were missing their eyes in addition to…_other_ injuries."

Dana felt her stomach rise to her throat. "My son…saw this?" she finally asked, voice hoarse. She looked over at Trip, who was sitting on the hard plastic chair near the door, knees drawn up to his chest. The can of soda was on the floor, untouched.

"Unfortunately," Farris replied. "He's now the primary witness to what may turn into a serial murder." Farris had an excellent sense of self-preservation, and didn't voice what most people in Palm City would have said.

"Wonderful," Dana muttered under her breath. What she really wanted to know, however, was why her son had been in the area to discover these bodies anyways.

Why hadn't he been on the bus?

- o – o -

Trip stared mutely at the ground, trying to suppress the memories of the dead bodies by sheer force of will. He should have just risked riding the bus today… If only riding the stupid bus wasn't torture—he could put up with a lot, but trying to put up with the other kids throwing things at him was getting to be way too much.

He chewed on his lower lip, shooting a look at his mother and the detective she was talking to. She didn't look angry, although there was a greenish tint to her face. If Detective Farris had told her about the dead guys, he wouldn't blame her.

The ten-year-old buried his face in his knees, swallowing as he tried to keep the contents of his stomach from coming back up. If the soda had been sprite or ginger ale, he would have chugged it. Unfortunately, it was orange soda. He really didn't want to see anything food-related that had color in it right now…

He looked up when the door opened again, and saw Detective Farris talking to someone else, half-hidden by the door. A minute later, the detective brought his friend over. Both of them knelt down so they were eye-level with the ten-year-old. The younger officer had a half-hearted attempt at a smile on his face.

"Hey kiddo," the younger man said. He smiled again, and his eyes lit up a little. "I'm Officer Philips. I'm working on the case you stumbled over." The smile disappeared, replaced by a slightly ill look. "We're gonna go get your mom, and then go to an interview room. Okay?"

Trip nodded, still staring at his knees. As Officer Philips was leaving, Trip looked up. "They were missing their eyes…"

Philips and Detective Farris both froze, then turned back to look at him. Trip swallowed, feeling his stomach twisting.

"Why were their eyes missing?"

Neither of them answered.

- o – o -

So, here it is: A new story. What do you guys think? Good, bad? Are you feeling a little leery about this story? Drop a line and let me know!


	2. Watch This City Burn

Well, there's another chapter to add to this mindscrew of a story.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter two: Watch This City Burn

Peter Fleming was not a man to sit idly by while a serial killer was running loose in his city. Contrary to rumors (many of them started by the delightfully _infuriating_ blogger Orwell), he did have some concept of morals. He just chose not to use them on a day-to-day basis.

That being said, a serial killer was rather worrisome. He'd spent too many years with Chess as a presence in the back of his mind to be anything less than agitated if there were murders happening in the same vicinity. That all of the dead men had been identified as off-duty ARK soldiers only served to feed the fires of paranoia that much more. Without Chess, he was vulnerable—and there was every good chance this psycho (and he applied the term rather liberally, just to make his case) would come after him next.

Damn everything, why had he gotten rid of Chess? For that matter, _why_ had Chess left so easily? Peter would have expected horrible nightmares (those had happened before, although one of them had been pleasant) or mind- and soul-crushing migraines. How Chess had learned to produce those…

But he was off-topic. He had a press conference to give, a public to reassure, and resources to assign to this case. For that matter, he needed to make sure the Faraday lawyer knew ARK would be footing the bill for her son's trauma counseling and a body guard—just in case. (Fleming wasn't stupid enough to believe that this madman wouldn't go after the boy who'd uncovered the body dump. It would be _incredibly_ bad press if Trip—who the hell named their child _Trip_?—were to snuff it.)

The billionaire checked his tie one last time to make sure it was straight and headed for his private elevator. His bodyguards fell in step behind him, silent hulking pillars of muscle. Time to go to work.

- o – o -

When Vince caught wind of Fleming's latest press conference, he almost brushed it off as inconsequential in the scheme of ruining the billionaire's life. Orwell's insistence that he pay attention almost grabbed his notice. What really grabbed his attention, however, was an article in the morning edition of the _Herald_. An unnamed child had discovered the body dump of a serial killer.

Vince's first reaction to the hysteria generated by the newest nutcase in Palm City was "What, have they already forgotten about Chess?" His partner, the investigative blogger Orwell, threw a pen at his head in reply. The press conference and the front page of the morning _Herald_ was only the tip of the iceberg, as Vince soon discovered.

Shortly after nine pm, as he was preparing to go out on patrol, the gruesome crime scene photos began making their rounds of the evening news. If it hadn't been for what he'd seen (and what he'd _done_) in the Middle East years ago, Vince would have lost the contents of his stomach. Orwell was not so lucky, and barely made it to the trashcan.

By the time the vigilante left on patrol, Orwell was chewing on a massive stick of cinnamon-flavored gum and waiting for a pot of mint tea to finish brewing.

Now, nearly an hour later, Vince was perched on a rooftop as he kept an eye on the city. Ever since Raoul had been arrested three weeks ago, the gang war had quieted down some. Not enough to make him or ARK happy, but it had died down. The violence had, thankfully, begun to restrict itself to inter-gang relations. He had yet to encounter any civilian casualties; and thank heaven for small favors.

The vigilante sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He was going to have to step up his patrols anyways—the gang war had, apparently, been the warm-up act for a serial killer. As he leapt off the roof, Vince had to wonder what poor kid had discovered the bodies. Whoever they were… Well, it wasn't going to be an easy month or seven for them. God help the poor kid if the press discovered who they were…

- o – o -

Vince perched on the edge of another rooftop sometime around midnight, keeping an eye on something entirely different. Orwell had reported that the gangs had slunk into hiding for the night—odd for a weekend—and the city was quiet. Aside from the occasional ARK patrol car passing by, the city was quiet. Peaceful, even…

Which was why he was now perched on the roof of an apartment building to observe his wife in her apartment. Even though it was after midnight, she was up and washing the dishes. She seemed distracted nonetheless, and kept glancing over her shoulder towards the living room. It was almost as if she was waiting for Trip to wander in.

Vince sighed. He should have been in there with her, not perched out here on a cold roof. Still, he couldn't complain. His family was still around for him to worry about; his namesake in the comics hadn't been so lucky.

The vigilante started when he heard a wail coming through the open window. His wife blanched and ran from the kitchen. Vince tensed, listening for anything that might tell him what was going on—like a break-in. He looked at his son's window, which was closed. Dana must have convinced him to keep it locked. Good idea—the weather was getting a bit colder.

The light in the living room flicked on, and Vince could—if he strained just a little—see part way into the room. Dana was holding Trip to her chest, and looked as if she was comforting him. Vince felt his gut churn, feeling guilty as he watched the scene. Dana had mentioned that Trip was having nightmares…

After ten minutes, the light turned off. A minute later, Dana was clambering out the window and onto the fire escape. She climbed up the ladder and sat on the edge of the roof, apparently waiting for someone. Vince, still feeling guilty, vanished in a puff of smoke. He couldn't face her right now—he'd come too far to give everything away.

There was a killer to catch.

- o – o -

-_Vince, you there?_-

Vince started awake as his headset buzzed in his ear. The vigilante barely remembered crawling back into his hideout around six in the morning, nursing some new bruises. Unfortunately for his ribs and shoulders, the serial killer hadn't scared everyone underground. The drug runners, under new leadership according to an informant, were still out in force. Pity. He'd liked that pair of boots…

The vigilante grunted something into the mic that might have been an affirmative and stumbled out of bed. It was too damn early for anyone sensible to be awake. Also, he was turning into a serious night owl. How the hell was Orwell so awake?

-_Good morning, Vince,_- Orwell said, sounding disgustingly chipper. –_I have some new leads regarding the serial killer. And Vince…?_- Vince was automatically awake at the worried tone in his partner's voice.

"What, Orwell?" he asked, sliding off his bed. He landed on the cold cement floor, hissing as his feet came in contact with the uncarpeted floor.

-_You're not going to like some of this._- Vince had little time to ponder what his partner meant by that situation, before she arrived at his cave, bearing coffee and an armload of print-outs. Vince took one look at the first page and blanched.

She was right.

- o – o -

Dana Faraday was a phone call away from going on her own murderous rampage. Somehow, someone had found out that her son had found the bodies. Now, reporters were calling every five seconds, begging for an interview. (To be honest, some of the offers were getting downright creative.)

She shot a dark look at the ARK flunky who was seated in her living room, cleaning a pistol. The smell of gun oil brought back some old memories—unpleasant side-effects and all. Honestly, though, she'd take the smell of gun oil over the reporters who'd tried to break in. So far, the mountain of muscle sitting on her sofa had shot two of them.

He'd claimed they were warning shots. If they were, Dana seriously worried about the times when he'd have to shoot to kill. She also had to wonder what the legal bill to keep him out of prison was. At least one of the reporters was going to be in the hospital for the foreseeable future.

Dana sighed and flopped down on the armchair she'd dragged in weeks ago, for no reason she could remember. Still, it was comfortable and a good place to think. The bodyguard looked up once, expression unreadable behind his dark sunglasses. Dana half-wondered if bodyguards were legally obligated to wear mirrored sunglasses, or if it was just a general fashion convention they picked up at bodyguard academy… Probably the latter.

The phone rang again, and Dana groaned a few choice curses under her breath. There was a sharp crack, and the phone stopped. She risked a look at the handset and sighed. Great. Now she had to buy a new phone…

Well, life couldn't get much worse than this, could it?

- o – o -

By evening, Vince had failed to turn up any leads. Johnny the Bull was close-mouthed and acting more like a mouse than his namesake. Kazzie, the temporary head of Scales' crew, was being equally closemouthed. (He, however, had opted to throw Vince off the docks, rather than tell him to leave.) If anyone knew anything about the serial killer or his whereabouts, they were too scared to talk. Considering the condition the bodies had been in, Vince couldn't really blame them.

The killer, on the other hand, was going to die slowly. Vince was a father first and foremost. He'd taken up the mantle of the Cape to send a message to his son, and now he had to follow through with that promise. Didn't mean he couldn't have some fun like he'd used to first…

Something about the case niggled at the back of his mind. The niggling little idea got stronger when he thought about his old team, but it was probably just coincidence. Thinking about the Jackals always unsettled him—and _he'd_ been their commanding officer.

Vince sighed and headed off for another hotspot. If anyone could dig up information, it'd be Orwell. Although the fact that she'd mentioned anarchy worried him a little. He had enough problems with the gang war and the serial killer! (Fine. If he didn't catch the killer, all hell would break loose. Fair enough, but did it have to happen now?)

He passed by two men changing a tire and chatting about work, and continued onwards. Jimmy Greggs was always good for obscure information.

- o – o -

Philips was more than ready to take his two weeks of vacation by the time he clocked off shift. If he hadn't put in for the vacation time almost a month ago, he probably wouldn't have gotten it. As it was, he had to be on-call for the entire time. You know, just in case every single on-duty officer dropped dead of the plague or something.

Either way, he was off-shift and going to dinner. Kia had been more than pleasantly surprised when he told her he was going to meet her at a nice restaurant. The reservations had been in place for nearly three weeks. If he missed his one-year anniversary with his girlfriend, someone was going to die.

The security officer clocked out and headed for the sidewalk. His truck was a lost cause, and it was too expensive to get a new one at this point. (Seriously, he was going to hurt the Cape for destroying his baby.) Still, the walk would be worth it. It was a nice night, after all.

Philips pulled his hoodie on over the dress shirt Kia had insisted he wear to dinner and set off for the bus stop. He had an hour before the reservation was called, and the restaurant was only a ten-minute bus ride from the flower shop he had plans to stop at. (He was seriously sucking up, not that Kia would mind. It kept things running smoothly in their apartment.)

"Excuse me."

Philips stopped, mentally cursing as his pleasant day dreams were derailed. He looked at the speaker and rolled his eyes, an easy grin appearing on his face. The head of the psychiatrists employed by ARK was sitting next to his car, attempting to change a tire.

"Hey doc," Philips replied, walking back to the parked car. "Need some help?"

The doctor smiled, wiping his hands on a rag. "I'm afraid I'm not quite as mechanically gifted as I'd like to be," he replied, standing up. Philips looked at the attempt that had been made and winced. He wasn't quite up-to-date on all of the Italian cars, but this was a mess. Sheesh.

"I can get it done in about five minutes," Philips said, rolling his sleeves up. Alright, it was a mess, but it wasn't that hard to correct. Just need a few bolts tightened, and…

"Going somewhere special?" the doctor asked, startling Philips.

He laughed, putting the wrench back in the trunk. "Yeah," he replied, wiping his hands clean of grease. "Dinner with my girlfriend. Why?"

"Curiosity," the older man replied.

Philips turned his back and was prepared to walk away when something heavy hit him between the shoulder blades. He twisted around, trying to grab his pistol. The crowbar to the side of the head was a bit of overkill, honestly.

He was unconscious five seconds later. A minute after that, and the only sign he'd been there was a small patch of blood on the sidewalk, which would be washed away half an hour later by a late summer rainstorm.

- o – o -

Well shit. So, what did you guys think? Good? Bad? Now worried about Philips? Drop a line and let me know!


	3. Counting Bodies Like Sheep

Hey, it's an update! And Jack Kirchner makes his first appearance!

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter three: Counting Bodies like Sheep

Dana paced around her living room, occasionally shooting dark looks at the newest ARK nuisance to enter her life. Thomas Sawyer stared back at her, face impassive. Not even a joke about his name had gotten much of a reaction out of him, aside from making his neck turn red. (She couldn't exactly blame him, though. Being named after a literary character couldn't have been easy.)

The man had arrived earlier in the morning, bearing a letter from his employer. According to Fleming, he was there to make sure Trip didn't get hurt. Trip, on the other hand, had taken one look at Sawyer and run screaming from the room. That didn't bode well.

The public defender sighed and headed back to the kitchen, praying the coffee was done brewing. She didn't have work today, but that didn't mean she was getting out of the paperwork she had to do. At least Kia was coming over later to share horror stories about the office and slog through some of the larger files with her.

It was a sign of how long the last two days had been when the sight of her son drinking coffee didn't even phase Dana. Trip was hunched over the kitchen table, staring at the dregs of coffee in the bottom of his mug. Judging by the dark shadows under his eyes, he was barely awake.

"Hey sweetie," Dana said softly, sitting down next to her son. He looked over at her, before returning his attention to the mug. "Are you doing alright?" she asked, placing her hand on his shoulder. She frowned as he flinched, and withdrew her hand.

"Don't wanna sleep," Trip whispered. "They keep staring at me."

Dana felt a little sick at that statement. It was unfortunately obvious that he was referring to the bodies he'd seen. They had been missing their eyes. If she got her hands on the sick bastard who'd committed those murders, there wouldn't be much left for the ME to identify, much less anything for the courts to prosecute.

Not knowing what else to do, Dana pulled her son into her lap and held him, just like she had when he was younger. Trip was obviously too tired to argue, and didn't try to wriggle away like he usually did. A few minutes later, Trip was fast asleep for the first time in two days. Dana smiled a little and picked him up to carry him back to his room.

Sawyer said nothing and returned his attention to the book he'd brought with him. Dana was grateful for that small courtesy as she tucked Trip in.

An hour later, Dana was seated on the floor next to her coffee table, going over case files with Kia. There was a pot of coffee on the table between them, growing colder as time dragged on. The pile of finished files was a fraction larger than the unfinished pile, but little progress had been made on it in the intervening time. Office horror stories had given way to stories about moronic spouses—boyfriends, in Kia's case.

Kia looked much happier than she had when she'd arrived. Apparently, Philips had completely blown off their date night and, to add to his sins, he hadn't even bothered to call. He wasn't answering his phone, which had been turned off sometime around midnight—just to add insult to an already festering injury. Dana thought it was a little odd that Sawyer—an ARK man himself—wasn't leaping to Philips' defense.

That he had disappeared was a little worrisome in itself, given the current crisis. (And she'd been _so_ close to forgetting that there was a serial killer on the loose.)

"So then," Kia continued, breaking in on Dana's morbid thoughts, "he calls me from the hospital, swearing that he was just attacked by a comic book character. What was I supposed to say to that?"

"The Cape, right?" Dana asked, a small grin on her face. In retrospect, the whole situation regarding the Cape was a lot funnier in hindsight. Philips' encounters with the vigilante were also funny to hear about. Although the one wherein the poor man had been dropped off a bridge wasn't quite so funny—she was going to have to ask the Cape about that. What if Philips had died?

It was one less ARK officer in the world, but murder wasn't something she could condone.

"Yeah. The Cape," Kia agreed, propping her chin up on her hand. She looked through another file, snorting as she read the charges. "Public drunkenness—arrested while he was trying to get into the cab he hailed. God save us from ARK."

"You've got to be kidding," Dana sighed. "Seriously? That's almost as bad as the public urination case." Dana and Kia shot dark looks at Sawyer, who had the grace to flush in embarrassment.

"This is just insane," Kia muttered as she threw the file onto the "burn it!" pile. "At least now I know why Jacob works so many shifts. He's got to have at _least_ as much paperwork as we do."

"And he still has time to cook?" Dana asked incredulously, pouring more coffee into her mug. "Where can I get one like him?"

"He's all yours," Kia grumbled. "Bastard is going to pay for last night."

Before Dana could reply, there was a thin wail of distress from Trip's bedroom. Kia said nothing as Dana rushed from the room to comfort her son.

Trip was going to have one hell of a long road ahead of him.

- o – o -

If Dana hadn't spoken with the therapist one-on-one several times beforehand, she never would have let Trip enter the office alone. Doctor Samuels was a calming presence though, and he seemed to get along with Trip. For that, she'd forgive him for working directly for Fleming. (Although it _did_ beg the question _why_ Fleming had assigned his personal psychiatrist to work with Trip…) She was assured that her son was in good hands. All else aside, she wanted Trip to stop having nightmares every time he closed his eyes; the ones after Vince had died would be a welcome relief.

The public defender sighed and pulled into her spot in the parking garage. It wasn't hers officially, but she parked there so often it might as well have been. All she needed to do was put her name on the barrier and she was good to go. Mostly.

Dana sighed and gathered up her things, trying hard not to jump at every shadow she saw. If she didn't know better, she'd say her paranoia was acting up again—as if she hadn't gotten enough of that growing up.

"You're getting paranoid, Dana," she muttered under her breath, imitating Jack Kirchner. Thinking of her old law school professor made the public defender pause for a few seconds in front of the elevator. She wondered what he was up to these days, before shrugging the thought away. There was too much work to be done right now, but she could ponder the thought at a later date.

She jabbed the elevator call button viciously, shunting all thoughts that weren't work-related to the back of her mind. Work was more important than wondering about a law professor she hadn't spoken to in years.

- o – o -

Dana was at her desk, slogging through another mountain of paperwork, when someone knocked on the door. She looked up for a second, before rolling her eyes as she closed the file she was working on. Great. Another lost reporter.

"Can I help you?" she asked, tone a bit icy. The man looked at her, startled. He had stunningly blue eyes and was going slightly gray at the temples. Thinking about Jack had apparently made her sentimental, as she was drawing comparisons between the two men.

"I… Ah, I'm a bit lost," the man said, a sheepish grin on his face. "I was looking for another office, but…" He shrugged. "Got an idea for me?"

"Who are you looking for?" Dana asked, sighing.

"Travis Hall, actually," the man replied. "Just delivering some papers. God I hate being stuck on courier duty." Dana raised an eyebrow at that. "ARK's legal department. Fun stuff," he said, a smirk on his face. "God I hate my job."

Dana laughed at that. She could sympathize there. "Go back to the atrium, take the corridor on the far left. It'll be the first door on your…right." As the man thanked her and left, Dana wondered if she should call Travis to warn him… Yeah. Probably a good idea.

- o – o -

By the time Dana picked her son up from his therapy session, she was half-wishing she'd had more interruptions like the ARK flunky who'd come into her office around lunch time. It would have been nice, honestly. And, while she sympathized with Kia, there was only so much she could take before creating excuses to leave. She'd make it up later, Dana mentally promised herself.

Trip, who should have been half-asleep by all right, was wide-awake and bouncing slightly in his seat. Dana sighed and made a mental note to lock the coffee up. It was great that he had so much energy, but this was not a good thing.

The prescriptions in her purse weren't good news either: Anti-depressants, an anti-psychotic (emergencies only), a sleep-aid (last resort only), and a mood stabilizer. This was going to cost her a boatload of cash, even with ARK footing most of the bill. Dana half-suspected this was just to keep ARK's publicity ratings up, but couldn't find fault with that at the moment.

She pulled into a spot outside the pharmacy closest to the apartment. The public defender shot a look at her son, one that clearly said _stay put or else_. Trip got the point and at least tried to stay still while she went into the pharmacy.

The shop was, thankfully, almost empty. There was only one other customer, but he seemed to be contemplating the difference between two different brands of painkiller, rather than trying to fill a prescription. Dana ignored him and went to the counter, praying she could get the prescriptions filled as soon as possible.

"How can I help you?" the man minding the counter asked. He smiled a little at Dana, although there was a look of nervousness in his face and in his posture. Dana shot a look behind her and saw Sawyer. _Well, that explained things…_

"I just need to fill a few prescriptions," Dana replied. She handed the papers over, and waited at the counter as the man headed into the back room to look for what was listed. She swore that she heard him mutter "It's always the good-looking ones", which made her snicker.

A few minutes later, the man was back. "We'll have to fill out an order for the mood stabilizer, but everything else is here. I just need to see your driver's license or other form of identification, and your method of payment."

Dana obligingly produced her driver's license—the validity of which was assured before the man placed the drugs on the counter—and her checkbook. She also placed the letter of note she'd gotten from Fleming, just in case. Everything looked official, and had gone a long way towards smoothing things out between her and several of the psychiatrists she'd interviewed. (Prior to getting Doctor Samuels, of course. The man was a godsend.)

"Alright, Mrs. Faraday," the attendant smiled. "Everything's in order. You have a good day."

Dana was almost out the door when the other man who'd been in the store stopped her. If it hadn't been for Sawyer and the fact that she was in a public place, she would have pulled out the mace.

"Mrs. Faraday…?" the man said. He was going slightly gray at the temples, and had an unusual set of tan lines on his face. Probably wore glasses, Dana decided after a few seconds. "Dana Faraday?" he repeated.

"Who wants to know?" Dana asked, looking at Sawyer. The man had unbuttoned his suit jacket, and she could see the telltale bulge of a gun under his coat.

"You…don't remember me," he said slowly. "I suppose it's been quite a few years since criminal procedure and your husband being suspicious of me."

Recognition dawned on Dana's face almost instantly. "Jack Kirchner? What are you…?"

"Tylenol." Jack shrugged. "Listen, would you like to get together sometime? I know it's rather presumptuous of me, but…" He trailed off, shrugging. "For old time's sake."

Dana smiled. "I'd like that." She paused. "Maybe when my son's back at school," she added. "I—"

"Hectic schedules?" Jack replied. "Is Thursday good?"

"Thursday would be great," Dana smiled. She left the pharmacy, whistling. Trip shot her an odd look when she got into the driver's seat, but said nothing.

_All in all_, Dana thought, _things were looking up_. And, secretly, she was actually looking forward to meeting up with Jack. It couldn't be any more awkward than the aborted dinner with Travis and Kia, could it?

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Looking forward to Dana's date with Jack? Drop a line and let me know.


	4. Buy Yourself Another Day

Hey, it's a new chapter! Things are moving along in more than one arena.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter four: Buy Yourself Another Day

Orwell paced around her office, chewing on a pencil as she studied the latest print-outs from the ARK police database. As usual, there was a white door hanging out in the corner of her eye. The hacker ignored it in favor of the print-outs and a brewing pot of coffee. If Vince was coming over, she'd need to make more. A lot more.

Maybe, she mused, there was some justification for buying one of the twenty-gallon coffee brewers she'd seen in Vince's favorite diner. Between the two of them, they could drink nearly fifteen pots of coffee. All-night vigilante work and blogging (or hacking) lent itself to some serious caffeine addictions.

She sighed, flopping down on the beaten up blue sofa shoved against one wall. The massive screen in front of her was showing another press conference, hosted by her _beloved_ father. Orwell half-wondered if Anarchy's drinking game—the one that had apparently led to him getting his stomach pumped—had some merit. It might make the smarm worth it…

"Orwell?"

The blogger looked up from the read-out she was perusing. Vince had finally arrived. "Upstairs, Vince!" she called. The den she'd turned into her office and main workspace was on the second level of her current hideout. It was the only room that had escaped the touch of white paint, as of yet.

"Hey Orwell," Vince said, head poking up through the stairwell. He climbed up the few remaining stairs, looking annoyed with the spiral staircase, as usual. "What's the latest news?"

Orwell shrugged. "Fleming is still covering his tracks and making no moves," she replied, attention back on the screen. "And there's no leads that have been discovered, as of yet…" Vince sighed, dropping onto a blue armchair that matched Orwell's sofa.

"This is just peachy," Vince said. He looked at the coffeepot, which was finished. He poured coffee for both of them while Orwell went over the latest news. "Remind me again why I should keep him alive."

"Vince, home," Orwell said, shooting him a dark look. Vince rolled his eyes and took a sip of his coffee.

"Patrol right now is pretty much useless," Vince said. He was now perched on one of the many computer chairs. "Everyone is damn quiet, even Johnny the Bull." He and Orwell shared a look over that one. Johnny the Bull was well-known for his tendency to run at the mouth. Why no one had tried to kill him yet still remained a mystery.

"Great…" Orwell was lost in thought again, chewing on the end of her pencil. The reason was apparent to Vince when he finally looked over her shoulder to see what she'd been reading. It was a summary of the victims—all of them had been ARK soldiers, which was no surprise. Judging by the notes in the margins, she'd been trying to connect the dots. So far, no dice.

"Is anyone else missing yet?" Vince asked, pulling the pencil out of Orwell's hand. If she wasn't careful, she'd probably chew it in half. Orwell looked up at him, surprised. Obviously, the thought hadn't occurred to her.

"I'll start checking the mainframes," she said, darting across the room to her bank of computers.

- o – o -

Two hours later, the duo had gone through three pots of coffee and more data than Vince had thought could legally exist. He and Orwell had nothing to show for their time—even a slim clue as to identity or motives. If Orwell couldn't find anything, her mood tended to deteriorate. It was the first time in nearly five years that her extensive network of informants had failed her.

"This is insane."

Vince looked up from his perusal of another folder. "What's insane?" Vince asked, spitting out a sliver of wood. His pencil was now thoroughly chewed to pieces. The vigilante wondered what was wrong, to make Orwell call something insane.

"I can't find a single damn thing," Orwell snapped, looking as though she was about to throw her computer through the nearest window. "I'm _this_ close to calling the brat pack for help!" She illustrated her point by holding her thumb and pointer finger a few centimeters apart.

"Who's the brat pack?" Vince asked.

"Don't ask," Orwell replied. "Their leader is a guy named Anarchy. If I'm good, he's phenomenal. And insane…" She muttered the last bit under her breath, as if she didn't want Vince to hear it. He did.

"Why don't you want to call them in?"

"Because I've got an issue with Anarchy," Orwell muttered distractedly. She sighed and typed something on her keyboard. The projector changed the image from a spreadsheet Orwell had been compiling data on to another website. In layout, it was similar to the hacker's blog. That was where it ended.

Where Orwell favored muted colors and the all-seeing eye in the background, this man… Anarchy favored bold colors that clashed, and his site seemed designed specifically to cause seizures. The only thing that wasn't epilepsy-inducing was the legend "United States of Anarchy" at the top of the page. It was dark blue and in a normal font.

Vince studied the page, and was instantly reminded of a graffiti artist. The kid had been caught painting neon pink anarchy symbols on PCPD cars. No one had ever figured out why, because his lawyer had gotten him out half an hour later.

"Should I ask?" Vince asked, watching the legend scroll off the page. It was replaced by what he assumed was the same phrase in brick red Cyrillic script.

"Anarchy, you'd better have a good reason for this."

Vince looked up at Orwell. She was talking to someone via a webcam, and did not look happy about it. The man on the other end looked rather pleased with himself. He had wild pink braids pulled back in a ponytail—just another difference between him and his more sedate counterpart, Orwell.

—_Well, I wanted to join the party, sweetie_— Anarchy replied, leaning back in his chair. —_So I put the details up on a post. Big deal. Are you mad that I invited myself in?_—

"You're going to make this a bigger issue than it needs to be," Orwell growled, fingers curling up in annoyance. Vince edged away as quietly as possible. Help was good—hell, at this point it'd be great, but not at the expense of his partner's tentative sanity. (She still wasn't doing so good after the Lich, but the challenge seemed to have invigorated her.)

—_How else am I going to fulfill my community service hours?—_ Anarchy asked, another impish grin in place. —_Alright, all jokes aside, I do want to help. You're going to need more help than the guy hanging around with you. The brat pack's already working on the problem.— _Anarchy smiled, and Orwell huffed in annoyance.

"Fine. I accept the offer." She turned to Vince. "Cape, we've got it. You might want to think about patrolling for the time being. The last thing we need is a double dose of anarchy." She shot a dark look at her pink-haired compatriot as she said that. Vince wisely departed.

There was no need to get caught up in a hacker-on-hacker fight.

- o – o -

If anyone was unhappy about her impending date with Jack, it was probably Trip. Dana would have suspected Sawyer would have had the most problems with it—he seemed to have taken to following her around while Trip was in school. Admittedly, the security man was mellowing out rather quickly, but he was still _security_.

No, it had to be Trip. Dana sighed as she watched her son glower at her from his spot on the living room couch. He'd taken the news that she was going on a date badly. No matter how many times she tried to explain that she was just going out for a cup of coffee with an old friend, he still refused to believe her.

"Trip, I'm going out," Dana said. She pulled her coat on, shooting him a look. "You'd better have your homework done," she added. Mrs. Blander, who'd come upstairs with Gerry, had assured her she'd make sure both of them had dinner and got their homework done. Gerry, at least, only had some projects for his Boy Scout troop to finish. Trip needed to catch up on his homework.

"You're still replacing dad," Trip muttered sullenly. Dana sighed and kissed his forehead.

"Jack is just an old friend," Dana said. She looked at Sawyer. "Anyone calls, let the phone ring. No one is home." The man looked at her, eyebrows raised. The public defender rolled her eyes, smiling. "Alright. I'm off." She gave Trip one last kiss on the forehead before she left, praying that everything would be fine.

Jack was waiting downstairs for her, wearing jeans and a sports jacket. The casual wear was surprisingly good-looking on him, Dana decided as she took his arm.

"Hello Dana," Jack said, kissing her hand as he led her outside. "I feel underdressed," he added, looking at Dana's attire. "Something I should ask about?"

Dana grinned. "I'll tell you about work over coffee." She looked back up at the apartment as she left with Jack, and was sure she saw Trip glowering at them from his window. Dana sighed.

This was never going to get easy, was it?

- o – o -

Philips jerked awake from whatever nightmare he'd been having, thrashing wildly. The last thing he could really remember was agreeing to help Doctor Samuels fix the tire on his damn car. After that, there was a seriously disturbing blank spot in his memory and… _Ow, headache_, Philips thought, wincing in pain. _Gotta get some damn Tylenol._

As his thoughts cleared up, the security officer began to notice some extremely worrisome things. Well, the ones that he could focus on, anyways. One: All of his clothes, including his boxers and socks, were missing. Two: He was tied to the bed he was lying on, and it seemed like the fucker who'd abducted him was using his handcuffs to keep his hands out of the way. (Kia preferred using his ties. And he could tell this nut was using his handcuffs because of the sizeable dent in the left cuff. The edge was sharp enough to draw blood if it got closed too tight.) Three: He was blindfolded and gagged.

Four: Whoever had abducted him didn't know or didn't care that he was allergic to adhesive. His allergies were acting up in the worst way, and he could feel an asthma attack coming on. He began thrashing around with renewed vigor, trying to free himself from any of his bonds so he could rip the duct tape off his mouth before it killed him. He howled into the gag, praying that someone—anyone—heard him before he suffocated to death.

Suffocation was _not_ the way he wanted to die.

By the time Philips stopped struggling, his wrists and ankles were bloody, and he could barely breathe. The blindfold over his eyes was soaked with tears and clinging damply to his face. He could just barely hear the door opening over his wheezing and muffled gasps for any sort of air. His lungs felt like they were on fire, and his chest was heaving like he'd just run a marathon. What little light Philips could see through the blindfold and his swollen eyelids was turning gray.

A few seconds later, the security officer was gagging and coughing, trying to relieve the stress on his lungs as he breathed in massive lungfuls of air. Whoever had abducted him had ripped the tape off his mouth. His lips were numb, but the irritant was gone. He felt a small prick in his bicep and began breathing easier a minute later.

_An EpiPen_, Philips thought with no small amount of relief. _Thank God_.

"Good evening Jacob," someone said. Philips froze as the familiarity in the man's voice registered. "We're going to be spending a lot of time together."

Philips began struggling again as something was shoved into his mouth. Before he could spit the newest gag out, a sickly-sweet smelling cloth was pressed over his nose and mouth. He had to wonder if Kia would realize he'd become the serial killer's next victim…or if anyone would ever figure out who the man was.

He blacked out a few seconds later.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Worried about Philips? Drop a line and let me know!


	5. Guard Your Women and Children Well

Hey, it's a new chapter! Philips isn't in this one, but Jack is.

Un-betaed, so quibble away!

- o – o -

Chapter five: Fight 'til you're No Longer Sane

By the end of the week, Dana had run out of work- or family-related excuses and tissues. Kia hadn't run out of tears. Her boyfriend had, for some reason, just up and walked out. Kia was seriously considering boxing his things up and giving them to the local Good Will, until she remembered that she was a lawyer. The plan was shelved, and she went back to her box of tissues.

Dana, meanwhile, was doing an amazing balancing act between Kia's depression, her family life, and her new love life. Her son was going nuts over the situation with Jack Kirchner, and not in a good way. Sawyer was, thankfully, saying nothing. The public defender was grateful that at least one person in her life was still sane. Even if he _did_ work for ARK…

She sighed and began thumbing through a stack of paperwork on her desk. There were the usual cases she had to deal with, along with having to deal with pre-trial motions and trials… Philips' vanishing act had made some of her work easier, at any rate. He'd been the arresting officer in some of the cases she was working on, but he'd vanished into thin air. No arresting officer or witnesses to his side of the story meant no case. No case meant that all she had to do was close out the file.

If only the rest of her life could be this simple.

Trip was getting into trouble at school again. This time, at least, she couldn't blame him. Luckily for him (and for her bank account), the parents of the boy whose nose he'd broken hadn't pressed charges. The school hadn't suspended him due to the number of witnesses who'd said Trip had been defending himself.

That good will hadn't lasted long, and her son was back to being the outcast. At least Mrs. Debolt was allowing him to spend more time in the classroom, working on assignments or other projects. Sawyer wasn't any help, because he'd been banished to the school's property line, despite numerous protests.

"Hey…Dana?"

Dana looked up at the question. Kia was standing there, holding a tray of coffee cups. There was an apologetic smile on her face.

"Kia," Dana replied pleasantly, clearing a space on her desk. "Come in. Have a seat, sweetie." Kia gratefully took the seat and put the cardboard tray on the empty patch of desk.

"Sorry for all the crap I've been dumping on you, Dana," Kia said without preamble as she played with the lid on her cup. "It's just…" She sighed. "Jacob never misses something without calling to apologize first, and then there's this… I reported him missing this morning, but I don't think his coworkers will care."

She sighed again and took a slug of her coffee. The Hispanic public defender grimaced and added several packets of sugar, before continuing. "So, to apologize for dumping my problems on you, what with everything _you've_ had to deal with…" Kia smiled half-heartedly. "Pizza and beers? Or soda," she added, seeing Dana's look. "Just…I don't feel like heading back to my apartment until absolutely necessary."

_That_ was something Dana understood. In the first few weeks after Vince's death, she'd avoided going to the house they'd lived in for years, trying to avoid the memories. She'd told Trip they were staying in the hotel to avoid phone calls, but the truth was she just didn't want to face memories of her husband…or the night he'd vanished.

"Pizza is good," Dana smiled. "Try around seven tonight. I've got to deal with paperwork first, and help Trip with his homework."

Kia smiled and stood up. "Thanks Dana." She gave her coworker another blinding smile and left the office. Dana reflected on the situation, and realized that it was the first time in four days that Kia had done something that didn't involve work or crying over her boyfriend's abandonment.

Maybe today was going to be okay.

- o – o -

Orwell chewed on the end of her stylus as she studied the data in front of her. The soft glow from her many computer screens illuminated her pale face, giving her a sickly blue complexion. Considering her mood, the effect worked—she _felt_ like a corpse. Anarchy wasn't helping much, even though he'd been running algorithms for her nonstop.

She couldn't really see any way to get around this problem. According to every projection she'd gotten, there was no way she and Vince would be able to catch the serial killer on their own. ARK wouldn't either, which was small comfort. There was a seventy-five percent chance he or she had already abducted the next victim. Chances of survival for the poor sap were less than zero.

The blogger sighed and beat her forehead against one of the keyboards. This was not working out. And the least palatable solution was quickly beginning to look like the _only_ one. Anarchy was, unfortunately, right.

She was going to have to talk to Peter Fleming. Her father…

- o – o -

Peter Fleming was not a man who rattled easily. Sharing his head with Chess for over a decade had helped with that. Still, every time he looked at the photographs or even thought about the case, he felt a trickle of ice-cold fear running down his spine. There was the prevailing fear, of course, that he would be next.

It wasn't unwarranted, he reminded himself. After all, every single victim had been an employee of his company. What he wanted to know, however, was why no one had realized they were missing. All of them had friends, family, in the city. Surely _one_ of them would have realized a loved one was missing.

He missed Chess. While he despised the maniac's presence in the back of his mind, his alter-ego was startlingly intelligent. There was also the niggling fact that Chess would have solved this case as soon as he'd caught wind of the details.

The billionaire rubbed his temples and wished he'd never thought of Chess. It had been over a month since the maniac had vanished into the recesses of his mind for good, so there was no point in worrying about anything. Acetaminophen, on the other hand, was a good idea…

His private communications line beeped, drawing the billionaire out of his private musings. Without bothering to check who it was, he accepted the call. To say that Fleming hadn't been prepared for a personal message from Orwell would have been an understatement.

-_Hello Mr. Fleming _- the synthetic voice said. It reverberated around Peter's empty office, making his headache grow just a little worse. –_We have a mutual problem; I believe your people are calling him the Appraiser. Do you want to talk more?_-

Fleming raised an eyebrow at that. He'd only been informed of the killer's designation an hour ago. Obviously his security was worse than he'd thought, if Orwell already knew. Not knowing what else to do, Fleming licked his lips and replied.

"Yes."

There was a metallic laugh that sent a chill down his spine. –_Good. We have information, but not manpower. You have manpower, but not information. Would you like to trade?_-

The billionaire found the exchange extremely odd. He murmured an acquiescence under his breath, wondering just how the blogger had created the uplink. Maybe if he got some members of the R&D department on it, they'd be able to replicate it. This could… But the blogger was talking again.

-_You may want to check employee records. Some of your people are missing. At least one of them will die if you don't make use of this information._-

That was worrisome. Fleming was about to reply when the connection terminated. The all-seeing eye logo had been replaced with a data packet. As he opened it, he had to wonder why, just for a second, he'd heard his daughter's voice under that synthetic tone.

Five minutes later, his computer crimes division was dissecting every piece of information he'd received from Orwell. There was no way they would miss anything now. For the first time in nearly a week, Fleming felt the barest hints of relief.

- o – o -

"You did _what?_" Vince yelled, waving his arms for emphasis. His partner was seated on her off-white couch, staring at him. For some reason, he felt like a cat was studying him. His partner really could be spooky some days…

"I sent copies of our information to Fleming," Orwell replied calmly, and took a sip of tea. She smiled serenely at Vince as he sputtered something. The vigilante stalked off and began pacing in circles, muttering under his breath and shooting dark looks at her every so often. The blogger couldn't blame him, however. She _had_ gone to their arch nemesis.

"Why?" Vince asked, a look of frank incomprehension on his face. Orwell shrugged.

"We needed his manpower," she replied. "Let's face it, Vince," the blogger continued. "You aren't going to cover the entire city by yourself, and even if the carnival helped you, you still wouldn't find this nutcase until the body count started adding up again."

Vince sighed. Why did his partner have to pick now to get her logic back?

- o – o -

While Jack was far from being Trip's favorite person, Kia was well on her way to becoming one. Pizza had definitely helped, although she wasn't so sure about the scrabble game. Dana had to hide a smile in her mug of coffee every few minutes as she watched her son and coworker arguing over whether legal terms could be used in a game of Scrabble. Sawyer seemed to be taking Trip's side, much to Kia's displeasure.

"Oh come on!" Kia finally said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Help me out here, Dana!" The Hispanic lawyer looked imploringly over at her friend, eyes wide.

Dana shook her head. "Sorry hon, you're on your own." She frowned as she heard someone knocking on the door. She hadn't been expecting anyone, had she? The public defender, still frowning, headed for the front door. When she looked through the peephole to ascertain who it was, her face broke into a wide grin.

Jack Kirchner had shown up on her front step, and he was bearing another pizza. Dana opened the door, and saw a sheepish smile form on Jack's face.

"I thought about surprising you with dinner," Jack said, "but I think someone might have beaten me to it…" He shrugged, sheepish smile still in place. Dana smiled back and drew him into the apartment, despite his protests.

"No, don't worry. There's never enough pizza." She grinned as Trip looked up at Jack and, for once, didn't scowl at her former professor.

"Hey," Trip began. "Mr. Kirchner. Is it fair if Kia gets to use legal terms in Scrabble?" Jack made one of the smartest decisions of his life and held out the pizza instead.

"I think," Dana said quietly as Trip took a slice of pizza from the box, "that you've just made a friend."

Jack grinned, taking years off his face. "Never take sides in an argument over Scrabble," he replied.

Dana sighed. At least nothing too bad had happened, and Trip was having fun. All in all, it was a good end to a fairly decent day.

She smiled and joined the game of Scrabble, with Jack as her partner.

- o – o -

Well, what did you think? Good? Bad? Is there such a thing as too much pizza? Drop a line and let me know!


	6. And Sweetly She Did Sing

Hey, it's a new chapter! Philips, ARK, and Dana all get something unexpected.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter six: And Sweetly She Did Sing

Philips awoke to darkness. Given that he'd woken up to darkness the past five times, it had ceased to be so terrifying or worrisome. He'd come to terms with his abduction, and was trying to focus on something other than being locked in a torture cellar. Or something other than the inherent wrongness that was being abducted by Mr. Fleming's personal psychiatrist.

Privately, the security officer wondered if being overpowered and then abducted by an older, slightly overweight man threatened his masculinity in any way. It probably did. He shuddered and rolled onto his side. His hands were going slightly numb, which wasn't as worrisome as it could have been.

There were worse things than that, though—like being kidnapped by Doctor Psycho, or the fact that he didn't have any clothes. The one nice gesture he'd gotten from the psychopath was a blanket pulled up to his waist, no doubt in an effort to stave off pneumonia or some other illness brought on by cold and damp. Despite this, Philips still would have killed for a pair of shorts; contrary to popular opinion, he didn't actually wander around his apartment in the nude on his days off.

Philips sighed and flexed his hands again, trying to maintain some range of motion. He shivered a little, wishing he had something to take his mind off the fact that he couldn't move and was slowly going insane from boredom. Was it really necessary for him to be tied up, given that he wasn't going anywhere without his clothes? Or, for that matter, going anywhere since he had no idea where he was. (He could have been in the state park, for all he knew. Although that was unlikely, given the psycho's primary dumping ground had been an empty lot in one of Palm City's poorer neighborhoods.)

The security officer coughed, and winced. He should have known better than to aggravate the bruising on the side of his face. He'd been abducted…three days ago, if he'd done his math right. The bruising hadn't healed, and the lump on the side of his head from where the crowbar had connected with his skull wasn't getting any better either. If anything, it had swollen and now it hurt like hell. It was an interesting shade of reddish-purple (_infection red_, he thought) now. He'd gotten a good look at it early this morning, when he'd been allowed to shuffle upstairs to use the bathroom.

The bruise covered most of the left side of his face, and it still twinged badly. The last time he'd had an injury that hurt this much and was that colorful, he'd sliced his leg open while hiking. He'd had to endure six weeks of bad jokes from the doctors. Hearing jokes about losing his leg if the swelling didn't go down had not improved his disposition towards doctors one iota. He had to wonder what kind of jokes they'd be making if they saw his current injury.

He groaned as he heard the floorboards creaking over his head. The bastard was back from work, or whatever it was he did during the day. While boredom wasn't something he wanted to deal with, Doctor Psycho wasn't much higher on his list of priorities at the moment.

Philips wondered how hard he'd have to press the bruise on the side of his head against the wall, and for how long, before he passed out from the pain. He discarded it as a bad idea a few seconds later as one of the crime scene photos rose to the forefront of his mind. He'd been unconscious too many times this week already, and God knew what the doc would do to him while he was out.

With that horrifying thought, Philips turned to face the stairs, wishing his blindfold was off. He'd probably be blinded if the doc came down the stairs, but it'd be worth it just for a little bit of light. (It'd been dark when he'd been half-dragged upstairs that morning; too dark to see anything, anyways.) Maybe if he looked pathetic enough, Samuels would release him long enough to pull off a surprise attack and…

The security officer's line of thought trailed off as he smelled food—real, hot food. His face colored dark red in embarrassment as his stomach growled. The man was fairly sure the sound had echoed around the basement, but he was hungry, _damn it!_ The last thing he could remember eating was a dry sandwich and a handful of salty peanuts for lunch the day he'd been abducted.

He swore in pain as the blindfold was ripped away from his face. After a few minutes of being blinded by the light streaming in from an open door at the top of the basement stairs, his vision cleared. Samuels was standing there, framed by the light streaming in from the upstairs hallway. He was holding a covered tray, and something too large to be a towel or a napkin was draped over one arm.

"Good afternoon, Jacob," Doctor Samuels said pleasantly, setting the tray down on a small table. Now that the blindfold was off, the security officer could examine the room he was being held captive in a bit better. He was in what amounted to a cage that was comprised of about a third of the subterranean room. What he saw on the other side made him close his eyes as a wave of horror rushed through him. He _really_ didn't want to think what the leather cuffs on the wall were for, or the massive collection of knives arranged in a glass-fronted cabinet.

Philips yelped in pain as Samuels pressed a far-too gentle hand against the side of his face. The doctor frowned. For a second, he looked almost like Philips' uncle when faced with a niece or nephew who was sick or had a scrape or bruise. (Of course, he hadn't liked his uncle, so the comparison fell a little flat.)

"That looks rather painful," Samuels observed quietly. Philips glared at him, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He would have made a snarky reply, but the gag prevented him from saying anything. The doctor smiled at him, a slightly paternal look on his face.

The security officer tracked his abductor as the man pulled the cover off the tray. There was food, which made his stomach growl again, and what looked like some minor first-aid supplies.

"This should feel better in a minute."

Philips resisted the urge to moan in relief as something cool was smeared along the bruises. The strong antiseptic smell made his nose twitch a little, but the burning sensation from the major injury had receded somewhat. He whimpered into his gag when Samuels withdrew his hand, hating himself automatically.

_Damn it_, _you need to remain objective about this,_ Philips thought angrily. _ This psycho is a psychiatrist. Shouldn't he know all about Stockholm Syndrome and all that other associated crap? Try to at least maintain _some_ detachment, dumbass_.

"Are you hungry?"

Philips looked up in surprise as Samuels began unwinding the strip of cloth gagging him. He nodded, wincing as his stomach growled for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. Samuels dragged the little table over and picked up a spoon.

"Wait," Philips croaked. "My hands. Could you untie my hands? Please? I _can_ feed myself, you know." He added the last bit as a pointed barb, and regretted it almost instantly. Samuels looked at him, and reached for the tray's cover.

"I can feed you, or you can go without," Samuels said, using the same measured tone. He probably used it with patients, Philips thought morosely. The security officer sighed and closed his eyes.

"Alright."

And, cheeks burning in humiliation, allowed Samuels to feed him.

- o – o -

Fleming looked over the data again and resisted the urge to throw someone out a window. He particularly had to resist the urge to murder whoever was in charge of the Appraiser case. (He'd also finally learned why the team had named their killer that: Each victim had been wearing a woman's engagement ring, resized specifically for them. The single diamond had been untraceable to any jeweler in the city, and none of them—as of yet—could remember selling any of the rings or resizing them.)

Over the past day, a hundred-man team had been working around the clock to check in with any male ARK employee between the ages of fifteen (couriers and interns; Fleming wasn't stupid enough to break child-labor laws) and thirty (the oldest victim, a janitor named Alvarez). All of them but one had been accounted for. Thus, Fleming's wish to kill someone via defenestration.

One of the primary investigators on the case was missing. Fleming stared at the employee photo identifying the latest victim in the case: Jacob Winston Philips, age twenty-seven. He'd been missing for three days; no calls had managed to get through to his cell phone, which his girlfriend (some public defender) swore the man never turned off.

Fleming sat back and studied the photo, wondering what connected a mid-level ARK employee to the thirty other victims. So far, the list encompassed a janitor, five couriers, twelve interns (considering the high rate of turn-over in that area, it didn't really surprise Fleming that no one had noticed them missing), two secretaries—again, not surprising—and ten members of Research and Development. None of them had been working on any project with a critical deadline, and had been slated for moves to other projects anyhow.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by his phone buzzing on his desk. It was Reese. Hopefully the man had some _good_ news; a little ray of light in the midst of this current insanity in Palm City.

A few minutes later, Fleming was staring out the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, contemplating the city that he was now the _de facto_ ruler of. _It had been so easy to declare martial law_, he thought morosely. _But it wasn't exactly unwelcome…_

He smiled.

- o – o -

Dana walked into the Public Defender's office, carrying a box full of case files under one arm. There seemed to be a riot in progress, which was worrisome. She set her box down on one of the benches and looked around for Kia, spotting her friend's raspberry-colored rain coat almost immediately. The lawyer forced her way through the crowd to her friend, who looked annoyed.

"Kia, what's going on?" she asked, staring quizzically at the mob. Kia looked over at her, arms crossed and a scowl in place. "That bad, huh?" Dana said.

"Oh, you have no idea," Kia replied, forcing a smile. "It seems that ARK, in its infinite wisdom, has somehow prevented Scales from getting access to his usual bottom-feeding attorney." Dana smiled at the joke. There were few people in Palm City, outside of the mob bosses that could afford his services, who actually liked Maurice Sestito.

"So…why is everyone up in arms?" Dana asked. "Are we in a competition to see who gets to defend our friendly local gangster?" She was smiling at the joke until Kia nodded. "You can't be serious."

"Deadly," Kia said. "Everyone, including our illustrious boss," she pointed at Travis, "has had their name entered into this little competition. On the upside, we get to pass our cases off to everyone who isn't working on this one. On the downside… We have to work with the circus freak."

Dana frowned at the comment. She might not like or even respect Scales (hell, she actually hated the man), but there was no call to insult him because of his…disability. Despite this, she had the same prayer on her mind as everyone else:_ Please, for the love of all things holy, _don't_ let _me_ be his public defender._

She, and the rest of the public defender's office, waited with baited breath as a janitor—dragged off of his schedule by a harried-looking Travis—pulled a name out of the giant bucket.

Dana turned to Kia. "Twenty bucks says it's Travis," she muttered.

"You're on," Kia muttered back. She actually held her breath as the man unfolded the strip of paper.

"Dana Faraday."

The rest of the public defender's office looked at Dana, looks of utmost sympathy on their faces.

"Shit." It was truly the only way Dana could have summed the situation up.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Think Dana and Philips are being tormented unnecessarily for the sake of plot? Drop a line and let me know!


	7. Like a Bullet from a Gun

Hey, it's a new chapter! Vince gets hit with a clu-by-four.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter Seven: Like a Bullet from a Gun

Vince paced around his lair, studying some papers as he chewed on the end of a pencil. There was something too…_familiar_ about this. It bothered him that a serial killing would be familiar. (He had enough trouble on his plate with Chess, thanks.) But…

The vigilante sighed and flopped down on the tatty yellow couch next to Orwell's bank of computers. The blogger had set up another row of monitors and an honest-to-god portable server after seeing Vince's set-up. Judging by the swearing he'd heard, she hadn't been all too impressed with his two monitors and single tower.

But he was off topic. The whole case was shaping up like something he'd run with the Jackals… God, what was it, nearly thirteen years ago? Fifteen? However long it had been since that issue, he still remembered that it'd been his last mission.

Vince closed his eyes, willing the memories not to completely overwhelm him as he sank into them. This was just…a copycat…

- o – o -

_Greene was on point, wielding his flamethrower like a bat out of hell. The dark smudges on his uniform weren't helping, nor were the black streaks he'd painted onto his face with pitch. (Vince would have thought that a pyromaniac would have known better than to use something flammable, but no one was going to say anything.)_

_Marty was busy making sure the rooms were clear and keeping radio contact with headquarters. If worse came to worst, he was under orders to call in an air strike with enough firepower to send this area—and everything around it for the next fifty miles in every direction—back to the Cretaceous Period. Lofgren was keeping an eye on him, because it wouldn't do to have their XO getting capped by some Jihadi with more balls than brains._

_Vince was keeping pace with Hanson and Hartman, following close behind Greene. Anyone who got through the wall of fire that Greene was cheerfully laying down got shot. It was merciful. If Vince had been anyone else at that moment, he would have felt remorse; but he wasn't, and there wasn't time for it…_

_The howl of a dying man only made them go faster. If another soldier died, they'd burn the fucker who'd been killing them._

_There was a feral grin on Captain Faraday's face as he gave a low, animalistic laugh under his breath. He didn't need to look or listen to know that he'd been copied by his men._

_The Jackals were hunting._

- o – o -

Vince shot upright, the same animal-like laugh dying on his lips. There was no way this case was connected to a dead mission from Iraq. Hell, he and his men had made sure the reports on how the operation had gone down were as vague as possible. High command had understood, and swept the whole thing under the rug. As far as Vince knew, all copies of the reports had been erased and removed from existence.

Besides, this couldn't be connected. Al-Amman hadn't left any notes on his work, or his methods, or his goals. Hell, no one was really sure if Doctor Psycho even _had_ a goal when he'd tortured over twenty-six American soldiers and their allies to death.

Al-Amman was dead. Vince and Marty had made sure of that. Every Jackal had six full clips left. They'd emptied the magazines and their reserves into that fucker's chest until it was so much raw meat and vapor. Greene had set what was left on fire; and, just to be _absolutely_ sure, Marty had called in their bombing run to level the area. (Given the ghost stories that had risen about the doctor, Vince was surprised none of them had thought to bring garlic, just in case he was a vampire and could have survived that.)

This was just fucked up. Vince stretched out on the sofa and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He was pretty sure he was forgetting something, but he could remember that later. He had a little over four hours until his next patrol, and hadn't been sleeping very much since the whole affair started. The vigilante rolled over on his side and fell asleep, visions of a burning, barely-recognizable corpse dancing behind his eyelids.

It was not an easy sleep.

- o – o -

"So…this is Vince?"

Vince heard the conversation vaguely, like it was distorted through water. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even and deep, wondering who the hell had broken into his cave. He heard some boot heels clicking on the cement, and then the tell-tale scent of passion fruit and coffee met his nose. _Orwell_… But why the hell wouldn't she know his name?

"Yeah. Let me go wake him up, alright?" Orwell didn't sound too happy about something. The boot heels clicked over to the couch, and the passion fruit scent got stronger. The blogger was probably standing over him.

"He's kinda cute, in a scruffy way." Someone bent over Vince, and the vigilante wrinkled his nose as something brushed against his face. "Good morning, sunshine. Care to join the living?" A cup of coffee was wafted under his nose, and Vince gave up pretending to be asleep.

He regretted it almost immediately.

A very tan young man with electric blue hair was staring down at him, holding two cups of coffee. If Vince could picture him with acid pink corn rows, he'd be a dead ringer for…

"Vince, this is Anarchy. He's going to be helping out."

Orwell looked uncomfortable, but Vince couldn't blame her. Anarchy didn't exactly seem like a good, wholesome individual—well, not from the whole hacker-and-vigilantism angle, anyways. Something about him was setting off alarm bells.

"Hi Vince," Anarchy smiled. "We're going to be working this thing together."

Vince nodded warily and accepted the coffee from the hacker.

"What can you tell me about Al-Amman and the Jackals?"

And promptly began choking on it.

- o – o -

It had taken over four hours, but Vince had eventually told Anarchy and Orwell the story behind Al-Amman and the nature of his…_experiments_. His suspicions regarding the case were duly noted. After another hour of being pumped for details, Vince couldn't take it anymore.

"I'm going out," he said. He was out of the cave before either hacker could stop him. Vince pulled his mask on and did something that he hadn't done for nearly three months: He went to visit his family.

Trip was in the kitchen with his mother and a stranger when he arrived at the apartment. They were eating dinner, and Trip appeared to be talking about baseball with the stranger. Vince bit the side of his hand to keep from sobbing out loud. He'd always hoped that Dana would wait for him, but…

He was being replaced already. And now, telling Dana that he was alive seemed like the wrong thing to do entirely. Vince stood up and swore under his breath as the fire escape creaked loudly under his weight.

"Cape?" Dana was at the window in a second, looking out at him. Vince sighed and waved, a sheepish smile on his face. The stranger—shit, was that Kirchner?—and Trip were standing behind her. Trip looked happy to see him, while Kirchner just looked wary.

"Hello Mrs. Faraday," Vince rasped, dropping into what he mentally dubbed "hero voice". "I didn't want to interrupt…" He gestured behind her to his son and the interloper. "I'll just—" But before he could leave, Dana had grabbed hold of his elbow.

"Nonsense," she said firmly. "You're going to come in, and have some coffee. And," his wife added in a dark undertone, so low only Vince could hear, "You're going to explain to my son exactly _why_ you haven't been to see him in nearly a month. Don't. Argue."

There was no arguing with Dana when she was in that kind of mood. Vince sent a mental prayer to whatever deity wasn't using him as a chewtoy and clambered in through the open window.

Trip and Kirchner were sitting on the couch. Trip was telling the lawyer about all the adventures the Cape had had, although Vince suspected his son was embellishing them with adventures from the comics. (As far as he knew, he hadn't met an arsonist yet, or a whackjob who thought alligators made good pets and/or weapons.)

"Hello Trip," Vince said cautiously, still using his raspy hero voice. "Sorry I haven't been around." Trip was off the couch in a second, and knocking all the air out of his hero's lungs another second later as he enveloped the man in a bone-crushing hug.

"You came back," Trip mumbled. "I thought you were dead like the others." And in that second, Vince realized just _who_ had found the bodies. The vigilante did the only thing he could, and picked his son up. A somewhat wistful smile crossed his face for a few brief seconds as he held Trip against his chest, mimicking the same actions that he and Dana had used to get him to sleep when he'd been much younger.

It still worked, and soon Trip was deep asleep. Vince felt Jack's eyes on him and looked at the man, shrugging. The vigilante hoped to god that Trip had been telling Jack all the stories about how he—the _Cape_—had lost his family. Hopefully the lawyer would draw the wrong conclusions and deduce that he'd lost his own son at some point. Because blowing his cover right now would get him killed.

Dana stepped back into the living room, carrying a tray with fresh mugs of coffee for the adults, as well as what looked like a plate of dinner. She shot a look at the vigilante in her living room as she set the tray down, and passed a mug to Jack, taking one for herself.

"So, Cape…" Dana said uncomfortably, sitting down on the couch. "Umm… This is Jack. He used to be one of my professors at university. Criminal law," she added. Vince set Trip down on one of the unoccupied easy chairs and pulled the throw blanket over the sleeping ten-year-old before taking the other unoccupied chair. Dana was sitting next to Jack on the sofa, curled up against him.

Vince tried not to feel jealous as he smiled at Jack. "I'm the Cape, I'm a vigilante… And now I feel like I'm at AlAnon," he added under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. Jack must have heard him, because the lawyer was grinning into his mug of coffee. He whispered something to Dana, and Vince had to resist the urge to beat the man who was talking to _his_ wife. Blowing his cover at this point would have Dana beating him to death with the tray or her coffee mug.

"Have you had anything to eat today?" Dana asked, gesturing to the plate of food. "I don't know how much like the comics you actually are, but I don't think vigilantism would leave much time for getting any sort of food…" She trailed off, blushing. Dana had a tendency to start babbling when she was nervous; thankfully, it only started when she was in the company of friends.

Vince's stomach growled, answering that question. He vaguely remembered eating a granola bar that morning, but… Dana pressed the plate of food—macaroni, chicken, and fruit—into his hands and gave him a fork. Her smile indicated that he should dig in.

If Vince hadn't known his wife better (and hadn't known about her secret love of DC comics and Superman's dual identity) he would have suspected she was trying to collect saliva for a DNA test to prove who he was. As if he didn't have enough problems already…

After he was finished eating, Dana started in on the harder questions.

"Why haven't you visited for almost a month? And why are you avoiding us?"

Vince swallowed. This wasn't going to end well…

- o – o -

So, what did you guys think? Good? Bad? Wondering how Vince is going to handle this? Drop a line and let me know!


	8. They're Coming To Take Me Away

Hey, it's a new chapter! Dana meets Scales for the first time, and become a little suspicious of Samuels.

Un-beta'ed, so quibbles away.

- o – o -

Chapter Eight: They're Coming To Take Me Away

When she'd gotten the assignment to become Scales' public defender, she'd thought nothing could top it. After all, it wasn't every day that one got chosen to defend the local psychopath. It was odd, though. Really odd… Scales had been in Palm City for so long that he was practically a living legend; no matter how many crimes they'd tried to pin on him over the years, the PCPD had never managed to make anything stick. ARK had, however, and the smuggler was on trial for murder.

Somehow, though, the Cape had managed to top that. She sighed and stretched on the couch, waiting for the vigilante to reply. Jack had gone home an hour ago, citing work in the morning as an excuse. He'd only left after helping Dana extract a promise from the vigilante to produce Vince, if the man was alive and well. (For some reason, the Cape had gone remarkably pale after making the promise. Dana wondered what he knew that no one else did.)

She sighed as he failed to respond to his question. The man looked half-dead and tired, sitting there in the arm chair. If not for the cup of coffee he'd had while staring awkwardly at her and Jack, Dana was fairly sure he'd be deep asleep by now. It looked like the last few days had been just as hard on him as they had been on her.

"I'll…"

Dana looked up as the Cape broke into her thoughts. "You'll what?" she asked, stifling a yawn. It was almost midnight, and she had to meet with her new client in the morning at eight. _Too damn early for meetings_, she added with a mental grumble.

"I'll bring your husband home, Mrs. Faraday," the vigilante finally rasped. He stood up, looking as though he wanted to say something else. He sighed, a light smile on his face. "You look like you could sleep for a week."

The public defender shrugged. "Probably," she agreed. "Good night, Cape," she tossed over her shoulder on her way to her bedroom. As she was pulling on her nightgown, she heard the window rattle close. The Cape, despite the fact that he had a lot to answer for, had at least made a promise.

And if he didn't follow through, she'd beat him with her coffeepot.

- o – o -

Meeting at eight in the morning should have been against the law, Dana thought with a glower as she showed her public defender's ID and driver's license to the guard stationed at the first checkpoint on the causeway to Owl Island Penitentiary. The guard waved her through to the causeway without so much as a word. If Dana had been going anywhere else, she'd have been clutching her cup of coffee in one hand, both for the smell of fresh coffee and for the warmth. Considering how many checkpoints there were on the causeway, she couldn't see any point in rolling her window up. The cup of coffee stayed in the cup holder.

Thirty minutes later—twenty minutes behind schedule—Dana was in the visitor's area of the prison, drinking her coffee and going over case notes. One of the guards had kindly turned the heat up for her with a knowing smile, before going to fetch her new client.

Dana eyed the cooling cup of coffee on the other side of the table. She might not like her new client, or even want to defend him, but there was no call for impoliteness. (Hell, it was just a cup of coffee, not an offer to break Scales out of prison. She ruthlessly trampled the mental voice that sounded rather like the Cape before it could start complaining.)

Her client was escorted into the room five minutes later. The guards on either side of him were, somehow, even larger than he was. Still, the smuggler cut an imposing figure in the ill-fitting orange jumpsuit. The guards attached his manacles to the ring on the table before retreating to the other side of the room. Dana noted with a tinge of unease that both of them were toting stun batons and tranq rifles.

_Oh goody_, Dana thought with a mental grimace. She got to defend the one criminal in Palm City who had to be sedated regularly. _Just perfect_…

"Well fuck me," Scales said suddenly, breaking the silence. Dana looked up, startled. The reprimand died on her lips; she wasn't at the kitchen table with her son. She was at Owl Island, sitting across from a grown man who'd killed people with his bare hands. He had every right to a foul mouth… "Mrs. Faraday. I dinnit t'ink t'ey could find a person—much less a lawyer—wot would 'ate me more'n Fleming does." There was a glint of dark humor in his eyes that was worrisome.

"I lost the coin toss," she replied dryly, drawing a chuckle from the smuggler. "I brought you coffee," she added, pointing at the cup in front of him.

Scales raised an eyebrow and lifted his hands up two inches. Dana flushed in embarrassment. Point duly noted.

"T'ank y' kindly anyhow," Scales replied. The cup of coffee remained untouched as Dana opened the manila file in front of her as she tried to gather her thoughts. "A coin toss?" Scales asked suddenly, breaking in on Dana's thoughts. "I really ain't popular, am I?" He sighed, a self-deprecating grin on his face. "Jesus wept. I'da found a way t' ge' me ol' barrister if I knew tha' much."

"That's nice," Dana replied absently, not really paying attention. He wasn't popular because he sent so much extra paperwork a _day_ to their office in the form of his employees. How was it that the average longshoreman got arrested so often…? "Mr. Raoul—"

"Dominic, please."

Dana glowered at her client, before continuing. "Mr. Raoul, you were arrested a month ago by ARK troops, after shooting Marty Voyt. Is that correct?"

"T'ey ain' go' any proof," Raoul muttered sullenly, leaning back in his chair. "F'r all t'ose cozzers know, I picked the gun up an' were tryin' t' find out who'd shot what." Dana blinked in confusion as she tried to puzzle through the accent. Maybe she should have brought a translator instead of coffee…

"So…you're saying that no one actually saw you shoot Voyt?" Dana clarified. Well, the Cape had, but he wasn't admissible as a witness. She sighed when Raoul nodded. If not for the fact that witnesses giving testimony needed to admit their real name for the record, she'd have had a solid case to… No, she still had enough to cast reasonable doubt at least. She wasn't allowed to let personal feelings interfere in cases, no matter how much she _loathed_ her client…

"Nope. Bleedin' bastards dinnit e'en gi' me a bloody call afore interrogating me."

That was the first ray of hope Dana could see in this case. Arguing a mistrial was going to be so much easier than trying to muddle through a murder trial. Dana's train of thought ground to a halt as her client's restlessness registered. The finger-tapping against the table that was almost nonstop was getting on her nerves as well.

"Would you _please_ stop doing that?" she asked after a few seconds. Raoul gave her a sheepish look and laced his fingers together around the chain holding his shackles together.

"Nervous 'abit love," he said with another easy smile. "My apologies."

This case was going to drive her insane…hopefully before her client did.

- o – o -

Three hours later, Dana was on her way back to the parking lot, having scheduled another appointment on her way out. Scales' guards had relented enough, halfway through the interview, to unchain one of his hands so he could drink the stone-cold coffee. After the interview was finished and every detail gone over with a fine-toothed comb, Scales gave her one look.

He implored her to bring tea next time. Dana had no idea how to respond to that, and decided he wasn't joking. Why was it that her life was so complicated? As she'd left, she'd have sworn her client had traded a few good-natured jabs with one of the guards. It made no sense, but then again, nothing in her life really did.

Some days, Dana swore she was living in a sitcom or a comic book. Given the number of coincidences in her life, and the odd occurrences (a superhero? Really?), it wasn't an impossibility. Just improbable.

Dana pulled out of the prison parking lot and onto the causeway, grateful that the warden had called ahead so she could get out with a minimum of hassle. She checked her watch and muttered another curse under her breath. If she hurried—and avoided the ARK patrol cars—she'd be able to get to Samuels' office before Trip's session was over.

It took her another forty-five minutes and a few close calls, but Dana was able to make it with five minutes to spare. Doctor Samuels kept offices at his home (a suggestion that Dana and Samuels had agreed was not for patients under the age of eighteen), at ARK Tower (vetoed by Samuels, as he only treated members of ARK Corporation there), and his secondary office next to Palm City's main park. The third office was actually rather nice, and it had a large bay window that let in a lot of light.

The secretary in the outer office smiled as Dana walked by, politely informing her that Trip was almost done with his session. The public defender thanked her and walked into the waiting room, choosing a comfortable seat by the massive window.

Dana froze at a small noise, before brushing it off as her imagination. There was probably another office above this one. Just her imagination. She put it out of her mind and waited patiently for the door to Doctor Samuels' office to open.

Five minutes later, right on time—as usual—Trip came out of the inner office. He was smiling, which was either a good sign or a very bad one.

"Hi mom!" Trip said, looking cheerful for the first time in over two weeks. He hugged her and went to collect his backpack from the closet at the other end of the room. Samuels came out of the room after him, polishing his glasses on his handkerchief.

"Doctor Samuels," Dana said pleasantly. "Good afternoon." The doctor smiled back, shaking her hand.

"Mrs. Faraday; it's always wonderful to see you." Samuels gestured to the coffeepot on the sideboard. "Would you like some coffee?" he offered. "I assume you've had a day that's almost as long as mine was?"

Dana grinned as he poured two cups of coffee. It had become something of a ritual between them to have coffee while Samuels discussed particulars of the day's session with her. The coffee was actually pretty good, especially for a doctor's office. (Although given that he was Peter Fleming's personal physician and psychiatrist, it wasn't too surprising. He could afford it.)

"Well," Samuels said, once they were in their respective chairs, "Vincent is progressing well. Or as well as a child in his situation could be expected to," he amended, before taking a sip of his coffee. He'd refused to use her son's nickname from the first session, claiming that he wasn't a relative, and therefore, it wasn't appropriate. At least he was professional…

"The medication is working," Dana replied. "His nightmares have gotten… Well, a little better. He's not waking up so much anymore either." _Neither am I_, she added quietly. "And he's getting along with Sawyer. They've decided that legal terms are no longer allowed in Scrabble." Jack had lost that argument because Sawyer was larger than Jack and Trip was incredibly good at using puppy-dog eyes on his mother.

"That's always good to hear," Samuels replied. He started when his phone rang. "Pardon me," the doctor said politely. "I have to take this." Samuels stood up and walked a short ways away. Whatever was on his phone hadn't taken much of his time, as he was back within a few minutes.

"My apologies, Mrs. Faraday," Samuels said, polite as ever. "A patient I'm treating at home was experiencing…difficulties." The way he'd said the last word sent a shiver down Dana's spine, and not in a good way. "He's rather out of sorts at the moment, I'm afraid." Samuels sighed, an odd look in his eyes. "It's not exactly professional of me, but I wish that all of my patients were as easy to treat as your son."

"Even Fleming?" Dana asked, a slight smirk on her face. There was still something odd about this conversation that wasn't sitting well with her.

"Occasionally, yes," Samuels replied. "Now, thank you for your time, Mrs. Faraday." He stood up and escorted the two Faradays to the building's front door. "Enjoy the rest of your day."

As Dana and Trip left, the public defender looked back over her shoulder. Something about Samuels was just giving her the creeps.

Whatever. It was probably just left over nerves from work…

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Think Dana should be a little more paranoid? Drop a line and let me know!


	9. Midnight in the Hanging Tree

It's an update! WARNING: This chapter contains implied rape and torture. It fully deserves the Mature rating. I will indicate where these will be implied, so that any reader may skip over them and avoid any potentially triggering or traumatizing material. That being said, don't say I didn't warn you.

Un-beta'ed.

- o – o -

Chapter nine: Midnight in the Hanging Tree

Philips sat on the edge of the cot, doing his best not to seem impatient. The whackjob was due back in…five minutes, if his timing wasn't off. He had a vague plan that was probably going to get him killed. At least it was an escape plan, the security guard added sullenly to himself, trying to quash the voice in the back of his head. _And talking to myself is the first sign of madness. Lovely_.

The security officer gave up trying not to give into impatience. He tapped his foot on the floor—heel, toe, strike, back to the heel, over and over again—trying to use the tapping to time out the minutes. It had to be at least three minutes now. The door to the cell had been left unlocked last time; if he weren't so focused on the escape plan, he'd have found it a little suspicious.

As it was…

Samuels came down the stairs, carrying another covered tray. Philips looked at the floor, the perfect picture of an obedient little captive. The doctor set the covered tray on the little table just outside the cell and walked over to the door.

"I would have expected you to try to run away by now," the doctor commented mildly as he opened the cell door. Oh yeah. That was part of Philips' problem—he still had a manacle locked around his ankle and nothing he could use to create a pick or a chisel.

"Did the others try?" Philips asked curiously. Samuels raised an eyebrow, as if to ask if he was actually serious. "Right…" the security officer mumbled, blushing slightly in embarrassment. He felt the manacle around his ankle tighten for a few seconds, before it fell away completely.

Philips surged off the cot, hitting the doctor in the face with a wild haymaker that knocked the older man off his feet. He hit the steps at a run, taking them two at a time. He was unprepared to find the door that led to the main house—to the rest of the world and freedom—was locked tight. Philips slammed against the door, swearing and pulling at the locks keeping the door shut.

How in the hell had he failed to notice those? Philips slid down until he was sitting on the landing, head held in his hands. How had he failed to notice the locks? The tightness in his chest was the first sign of imminent tears, and Philips didn't exactly care. He. Had. _Failed_.

"You took far less time to give up than the others," Samuels commented, emerging from the cell. He was holding Philips' watch—no doubt something else he was going to taunt his captive with—and appeared to be examining one of the many functions. "Less than two minutes. I have to say, I'd expected more from you."

"Screw you," Philips replied, although his heart wasn't exactly in it. He felt…exhausted. Like nothing really mattered anymore. He looked through his fingers at Samuels, who was standing on a step below, studying him like an insect. The security officer looked away, studying the fraying threads on the hem of his trousers—a pair of flannel sweatpants that had seen better days…probably in the seventies. At least they were solid red.

"Come here, Jacob," Samuels said, not unkindly. Philips, not seeing any point in resisting, stood up and walked down a few steps.

Honestly, getting thrown down them wasn't that much of a surprise either.

- o – o -

_You killed me!_

Philips was pretty sure he preferred his other nightmare to this one. He was in a vast, white hall with no end in sight. The walls reflected the brilliant light even further, making it almost impossible to see. The only thing in the room that wasn't white was an all too familiar figure dressed in black. The remains of a mask were on the other man's head, and his torso was soaked in blood, dripping from his cut throat and the shrapnel wounds in his chest.

_You murdered me!_

The security guard jerked back in surprise. A few seconds ago, Faraday's ghost had been at the other end of the hall. Now, the ghost was holding him up by his jacket, snarling epithets and accusations in his face.

"I…I didn't…" Philips gasped, trying to jerk away. The grip on his collar (_his throat, _Philips thought, before shaking it away as odd) was inhumanly strong. "I did—"

_LIAR! You murdered me!_

Faraday's ghost was unusually insistent on that, except… Now it was changing, morphing into another all too familiar figure. The Cape stood before him, but… Something was wrong. The Cape's torso was bloody and mutilated, in the same fashion as Faraday's ghost. The Cape's face was bloodless and unnaturally pale. The rictus grin didn't help.

_You killed me_, the Cape hissed, wrapping his cloak around Philips' neck. _You killed me!_

Philips tried to jerk away, and howled in pain as the vigilante struck him repeatedly in the chest, torso, and legs.

_YOU MURDERED ME!_

This nightmare was all too real for Philips. Even trying to wake up wasn't helping. "I didn't murder you!" he howled back as the Cape threw him to the ground. "I didn't!" he sobbed, helplessly. "I didn't…"

The Cape hauled him off the floor a second later, the rictus grin in place. _I am Faraday, Faraday is I. You murdered me._

Philips shook his head in denial. The Cape had appeared three months after Faraday had been blown up. Hell, he'd seen the remains himself! Everyone on the team had… Hadn't they?

_It wasn't my body, you idiot. You murdered me, and now you're paying for that mistake_.

The security officer sobbed in pain as the vigilante threw him to the ground and began kicking him in the chest and abdomen. The vigilante never stopped hurling his accusations, and all Philips could do was endure them.

_But at least you're paying for your mistake_, the Cape continued, softly, kneeling down so he was eye-level with Philips. _Faraday is dead, but I am not. Faraday is me, I am Faraday. You murdered me_.

And, in an odd way, the accusations finally made sense. Philips really wanted to wake up from the nightmare before he started agreeing with the vigilante…

- o **POTENTIAL TRIGGERING CONTENT AHEAD **o -

Waking up was almost worse than the nightmare he'd been trapped in. Philips moaned in pain, noting absently that his gag had been replaced at some point. He curled up on his side, sobbing as his entire body screamed in pain. Samuels had done a lot more than just tossing him down the basement stairs. How much of the nightmare had been his imagination, and how much had been Samuels remained to be seen.

Philips chose to ignore, as best he could, the damp, sticky feeling between his legs or on the mattress. He just…didn't want to think about it.

_Nothing_ had happened.

- o **END POTENTIAL TRIGGERS **o -

Vince paced around his hide-out, trying to figure out how he was going to break his news to Dana in…six hours time, he guessed as he checked his watch. Ideally, he'd have a lot more time to think about this. For that matter, he wouldn't even be doing this… If not for all the crazy happenings of the past week, he'd never even think about doing this.

_But that wasn't fair to Dana_, his conscience argued. _Dana deserved the truth, after all. And_, his conscience added helpfully, _she might stop seeing Jack…_

The vigilante muttered a few choice curses under his breath. There was no reason to have this much of an argument with himself, honestly. He was going to have to tell Dana the truth. He should have told her sooner; he'd _meant_ to tell her sooner, but… Things had come up, and…

Vince sighed and flopped down on his tatty couch, head cradled in his hands. If not for the serial killer, he wouldn't have to deal with this, his son wouldn't have to live with nightmares… And ARK would still smell of roses and sunshine and all things wholesome. There had to be an upside to the serial killer, didn't there? He'd have questioned it more, but then…his life had stopped making sense months ago. The vigilante shook his head and sighed.

He had to deal with this sooner, rather than later… But what a time to do it.

Four hours later, the sun had set and true night had fallen. Vince donned his costume and left his ear piece turned off. There was no point in being bothered by Orwell's natter or, worse, Anarchy's. (Anarchy was like a five-year-old on speed…or meth. It was insane.) The vigilante straddled his motorcycle and gunned the engine. Five minutes later, he was out of Trolley Park and heading for the very edge of the business district. There was no sense in keeping Dana waiting too long…

- o – o -

Dana sat on a lawn chair on her apartment's roof, watching the horizon for a familiar pair of tights. The Cape had a lot to answer for, and… She sighed, sending another mental prayer out, hoping that this time, her husband would be with him. Jack had begged off being there for the revelation, saying he had more paperwork to file.

And that was another thing. Jack had approached her this morning while she was working through the necessary paperwork for her only case with an interesting offer. He was starting his own law firm, and had offered her partnership in it. He'd even told her that he'd wait until tomorrow for a reply of interest. A definite yes or no could wait until he actually had a chance to get his firm started.

If she didn't get the answers she wanted from the Cape tonight, she'd join Jack's firm. She had given up on waiting for the Cape to stop dancing around the issue of her husband, or even for the vigilante himself to make a move. It just wasn't worth it.

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. Trip was downstairs, in bed. Sawyer was keeping an eye on him; the other was firmly trained on the apartment's front door. A reporter had somehow managed to break in. Sawyer was lucky, Dana thought, that he worked for the police and that his boss owned the media. Hanging a reporter out a fifth-story window by his ankles while reading him the riot act would have gotten him time for attempted murder—or at least intent to cause grievous bodily harm—anywhere else.

"Mrs. Faraday?"

Dana jumped as the familiar rasping voice broke into her thoughts. The vigilante was perched on the corner of the roof, looking like nothing so much as a giant bat. (She was secretly sure he'd absolutely _loathe_ the comparison.)

"Cape!" Dana said pleasantly, standing up. "How are you? Would you like a drink?" She'd come well prepared for this little event. She had a giant thermos, filled to the brim with fresh coffee. She also had two mugs; Sawyer, still downstairs on the lookout for more intruders, had a third mug.

"That would be nice," the Cape replied. Dana poured him a mug. The two of them sat together in comfortable silence for a few minutes while the vigilante drank his coffee.

"So…" Dana said slowly, breaking the companionable silence. "You said my husband is still alive. Where is he?" She'd ignored the pleasantries and gone straight for the hard questions. Judging by the look on her vigilante's face, he wasn't exactly looking forward to this. But she _had_ to know…

"D…Dana, the fact is…"

Dana paled at that. No. No. No, he couldn't—! She pressed her hands over her mouth, trying to block off the impending sobs. Vince had died, hadn't he?

"Oh hell," the vigilante muttered. If Dana had been paying attention, she would have heard the rasp drop from his voice. "Dana, look at me!"

Dana looked up, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"Dana, the fact is, I…" He reached up and pulled his mask off. "I really should have planned this better."

The public defender threw herself into her husband's arms, sobbing for all she was worth. She'd kill him later, but right now…

Right now, everything was as it should have been.

Even if her husband was such an idiot.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Should I finally cut poor Philips a break? Drop a line and let me know.


	10. Come Away to the Water

Hey, it's an update! I know it's a bit late, but it's summer vacation. ARK gets a suspect in the case and someone makes another appearance they shouldn't have.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away!

- o – o -

Chapter ten: Come Away to the Water

Vince lay next to his wife, watching the early-morning sun play across her hair. In this kind of light, her normally reddish-blond hair looked like it was awash in fire, coppery-red and glowing. He smiled and wound a strand around a finger, content to just watch while Dana slept. Last night's revelation had taken a lot out of both of them. The make-up sex, though… _That_ had been fantastic. Later, he'd have Orwell and Anarchy find out why—exactly—the walls in this particular apartment building were so thick. Maybe. Not.

The vigilante kissed his wife's temple gently, smiling as she stirred a little. A sleepy smile spread across Dana's face, and judging by how she curled up around his pillow, she was having a good dream. Vince didn't want to disturb her—wanted to hold her in this moment, between sleep and wakefulness—forever. Like this, she was beautiful beyond belief.

"Vince?" Dana's sleepy murmur brought Vince out of his thoughts.

"Good morning Dana," Vince replied, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I love you so much." Dana peered up at him from underneath her eyelashes. Vince was about to kiss her again when his com unit buzzed like an angry bee. The vigilante sighed and rubbed his eyes with one hand, wondering if smashing the piece of equipment would delay his darling partner for another few hours—hours that he could spend with his wife, as a matter of fact.

"Tell them to go away," Dana grumbled into Vince's chest, wrapping her arms around him. The vigilante was all too eager to do that, especially with Dana's hair tickling his nose. He'd missed this, so damn much. If not for the fact that he was supposed to be a dead fugitive, it'd almost be like any morning they didn't have work waiting for them. He sighed as his headset buzzed again.

"I think I might just do that," Vince muttered under his breath, fitting the unit over his ear. "Orwell, this had better be good."

-_Like sleeping with the wife who _should_ think you're still dead?_- Orwell replied, tone snarkier than usual. She probably hadn't had her coffee yet.

"Orwell, you're perverted. Stay out of my personal affairs," Vince replied, kissing his wife again. He could almost imagine the look on his partner's face about the sounds coming through the mic. He really didn't care, honestly speaking.

-_Get back to the lair, Vince_- Orwell sighed. –_We need to talk_.- It spoke of how long they'd worked together that Vince could find no reason to argue with the blogger. Feeling Dana's eyes boring into his back, the vigilante got dressed. He pressed another kiss onto Dana's lips, trying to promise her what he couldn't actually say with words.

As Vince left the apartment on Sycamore Boulevard, he made a mental note to buy Dana flowers. A _lot_ of flowers.

- o – o -

"Someone got laid," Anarchy muttered to Orwell as he brewed a fresh pot of coffee. In the week that he'd been in residence in Orwell's hideout, the guest room/secondary processing room had gone from orderly to barely controlled chaos. The only are that remained untouched was the table the coffeepot rested on and the coffeepot itself. After all, in their line of work, only coffee was sacred.

"Anarchy, shut up," Orwell muttered into her hand. She buried her face in her half an hour ago, both in an attempt to stave off another migraine and to try and dredge up another pass code into ARK's servers. She'd hit on some interesting things, but all the relevant sources were hidden behind a new encryption she had never seen before. Anarchy hadn't seen it either, which meant they were due for at least three days of trying to crack it open.

"Yeah," Vince added. "Please, never mention my sex life again." He glowered at the hacker, who smiled back, a look of glee on his face. "Orwell, what was…" he yawned, jaw cracking. "What was it that was so urgent?" The vigilante really thought he should have gotten more sleep the night before, but… Well, what Dana wanted, Dana got. And what she wanted was some good material to hold over Vince's head, should he try to vanish on her again. (Vince wondered, privately, what would happen if he asked for a repeat of last night's events. He'd probably get hit with a frying pan…)

"Nothing you'll want to hear," Orwell replied, pulling up the relevant feed from the local NBC affiliate. There was a press conference happening in front of ARK Towers. The scrolling bar at the bottom stated that a suspect in the abduction of Jacob Philips and the murders of at least twenty known individuals had been arrested and was in interrogation.

The mug in Vince's hand shattered, sending a spray of coffee over his hand and one of Anarchy's lurid purple shirts. He didn't even notice that his hand was bleeding, or that the shards of ceramic were digging into his palm even further.

Somehow, this was…wrong.

- o – o -

Fleming studied the man in Interrogation One, wishing—not for the first time—that he could have Chess' input into the situation. This had been far too easy. Somehow, he had never thought that capturing a sociopathic killer would be so easy.

_And there's the pot calling the kettle black_, Peter mused. He had his own problems to be sure, but he'd… Well, alright, he'd been brutal when it was necessary to send a message, but never on a scale like this. Even Chess would have been sickened by the level of methodical torture that the dead men in the cold room in the morgue had undergone prior to their deaths.

The man in the interrogation room was middle-aged and reasonably fit for someone getting on in his years. Thinning grey hair was brushed over his scalp in an attempt to cover up the fact that he was balding. All in all, he was rather unassuming and didn't look like a serial killer.

…of course, then again, neither did he. No one in the world, aside from the Cape and Orwell, even knew that he was Chess. Peter sighed, a frown creasing his forehead. Despite refusing to admit it, his two primary nuisances weren't actually as big a threat right now. He was going to have to do something drastic…

"Charles!" Fleming snapped, breaking the silence in his office as he called for his personal assistant. "I need two notices sent out, and a letter of credit extended to the team trying to find Officer Philips."

The man nodded, pulling a PDA out of an inner pocket in his suit jacket. "What notices would you like sent out, sir?" the man asked. He was, as always, an impeccable source of help. Fleming had done his best to keep the man away from the more sordid aspects of ARK, and it had paid off with unquestioning loyalty…_ Genuine_ loyalty, actually. He wouldn't question anything.

"I want all funding pulled from the searches for the Cape and Orwell," Fleming said, pulling up the relevant spreadsheets on his holographic screen. "And tell the team looking for the Appraiser and Philips that their budget has just gone up two-hundred percent."

It was a fact of Charles' undying loyalty and unquestioning faith in his employer that he didn't even question the changes. "Of course sir. Would you like to announce this personally, as a show of support to the public?"

Fleming smiled. "Schedule that, if you would." He turned to face the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city, silently dismissing his assistant. As soon as Charles was gone, Fleming stood up and yanked his tie off, heading for the sideboard. While Samuels had recommended he not drink more than once a week—an attempt to see if that would cure his minor anxiety issues—he was tossing those orders out the window. Being this close to a case like the one currently giving him control of the city…

Well, it wasn't much of a surprise that he needed a drink.

_What an idiot_.

- o – o -

Thomas Sexton stared at the man who was, allegedly, responsible for the deaths or disappearances of almost thirty men. All of them had been good, upstanding employees of ARK Corporation. And this was the bastard who'd been fingered for it.

The security chief didn't even stir as the door opened to admit his partner, Thomas Sawyer. The man was pulling double rotations, between regular shifts at work and the bodyguard duty with the Faraday kid. Sexton was fairly sure, though, that he'd be able to make the bastard sitting across from him crack in a few minutes. Not blinking had, apparently, been a good skill to develop.

"Coffee, Sexton?" Sawyer asked, holding the cup out. Sexton took the cup, still not breaking his uninterrupted staring contest with the suspect. The other man was starting to sweat, and looked incredibly nervous. Although given that he was face-to-face with the man who'd rightfully earned the nickname "lidless wonder", it wasn't much of a surprise.

Sawyer turned to the suspect and smiled. "You know, Mr. Jackson," he said pleasantly, "Sexton isn't likely to stop staring at you until you tell us where you've gone and stashed Philips. Of course, when you do, he'll probably tear you apart and eat your eyes on toast just so you can't escape." He smiled at the man, who was _definitely_ sweating now.

"Sawyer, shut up," Sexton remarked. He still wasn't blinking, which made Sawyer wonder what he did to keep his eyes from drying out. Maybe he was a lizard or something… He grinned at Jackson. "And I wouldn't tear you apart to get your eyes…I'd just take them out with a spoon. Of course, a sick freak like you would probably enjoy that. I mean, considering what you did to the others, and were probably in the process of doing to Philips…"

That was what made Jackson crack.

Watching a man who was, unfortunately, their only suspect break down and start blubbering was rather pathetic.

"I had an alibi!"

Sawyer and Sexton looked at each other as the man's confession continued.

"Flip you for it," Sexton said, pulling a coin out of his pocket. "Heads, you get to tell Fleming, tails means I do."

Sawyer lost. As he left, he saw Sexton pulling something out of both of his eyes. So _that_ was how he'd done it… Painful, but effective.

- o – o -

Fleming stared at the picture on his screen, feeling rather sentimental. His daughter was almost seven in the picture. He didn't remember which employee had snapped the picture, but he still treasured the shot. His little ballerina had her arms outstretched like she was flying. Jamie had convinced him to hold her over her head so she could pretend she was flying with her mummy. It was the first time his little girl had smiled since her mother had died. He sighed.

_Sentimental, aren't we Peter?_

Before he could question where the thought had come from Charles entered with Sawyer.

"Sir, we may have a slight problem with the suspect…"

_Oh shite._

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Hoping for more mushy stuff from Dana and Vince? Drop a line and let me know!


	11. The City Looks So Pretty

Okay, so this chapter is late. Fleming hits on Vince, and Hitchhiker's Guide makes an appearance!

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter eleven: The City Looks So Pretty

Vince perched on the rooftop of the skyscraper next to ARK Tower, keeping an eye on the billionaire who ran the company. Fleming had yet to dismiss his bodyguard, despite the fact that it was nearly midnight. Chances were, the billionaire wasn't going to get rid of the man for a good while yet. The vigilante sighed and wished he'd brought a thermos of coffee or some chemical hand warmers with him—it was freezing up on this rooftop.

The pack he'd brought with him—with the full intention of turning everything over to Fleming, if only to get this current nightmare over with as fast as possible—was resting behind him, safely off the ledge and on the rooftop. It wouldn't do for his carefully collected and organized files to go flying off on the wind, after all.

Twenty-four hours ago, he wouldn't have even considered this…

- o – o -

Vince had never dealt well with boredom, which was why he'd chosen the careers he had. Military wet works (alright, he'd been under orders to call them Black Ops because wet works terrified people), detective with the Palm City Police, and now…_vigilante_. He hated sitting still, with nothing to do.

This was an exception, however.

He, Orwell, and Anarchy were seated around the command center in his cave, watching the small TV with bated breath. They were waiting for the other shoe to drop, honestly. An hour ago, Fleming had held another press conference.

The only suspect they'd had in the Appraiser case had been released, due to a decent alibi. (It was airtight—he'd been in prison until three days beforehand.) On the upside, Fleming was pulling funding from noncritical areas to provide more resources to the search for the missing Officer Philips and the person or persons unknown who'd abducted him.

The second downside, as the trio discovered a few minutes later, was that checkpoints were being set up all over the city. All major roads out of the city were now being watched, and individual checkpoints had been set up at random locations throughout the city. Cars were being searched at random, and photos of the missing officer and his deceased comrades were being circulated everywhere possible. In short, Fleming was using his power of martial law to full effect.

_It could have been worse_, Vince decided as he switched the set off. _Fleming could be ordering a curfew._

"I'm going for a run," the vigilante announced, standing up. Orwell wordlessly passed him his headset as he passed by. She and Anarchy were busy with some project that had captured their attention shortly after the TV had been turned off. At least they were occupied.

Vince headed for Ditmus Park at an easy lope, trying to clear his head. On the upside, he had a date with Dana tomorrow night… Alright, it was just pizza with her and Trip at the apartment, but it still counted. On the downside, he had to survive to tomorrow first. The increased ARK patrols weren't going to make his life any easier… (He could take a night off, but the last time he'd tried for a day off, he'd ended up getting chased by assassins. Maybe he could just be on-call instead…)

In the past few days, he'd come across no leads as to what might have happened to Philips. The only reason he even remotely cared about the man was that Dana's best friend and co-worker, Kia Moreno, was upset. Dana was very empathic when it came to her friends, and if she was unhappy, he was going to be _really_ unhappy. So, he needed to find Philips.

Despite the unusually warm weather Palm City had been experiencing the past few weeks, this week was the exception. March weather had come back with a vengeance, and it was too cold to go anywhere without a hoodie and a scarf at least. Vince was quite happy to take advantage of this, and was wearing a knit grey cap pulled low over his forehead and a red scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. Not having to wear sunglasses while on one of the running trails in the darker parts of the woods in Ditmus Park was a blessing.

The vigilante was halfway through his run down one of the longer trails when he hit the first checkpoint in the park. Given that he'd seen the press conference less than an hour ago announcing the checkpoints, he was a little unprepared. The ARK troopers patrolling this little area had a few dogs with them—cadaver dogs, if Vince had to make a guess. Either they thought the runners were toting bodies with them, or they were checking for more burial sites.

Either way, it was not a good day to be him. He'd forgotten his fake ID, and the troopers were checking IDs of anyone who came past the checkpoint. They were also showing the runners photos of what Vince assumed were the victims and potential suspects. Judging by the body language, it wasn't going well.

Vince sighed and turned around to run back the way he'd come. He had no desire to deal with this now—and besides, it was a given that everyone in the city would know what his face looked like, given that his supposed crimes were the favorite fall-back story on a slow news day.

Getting chased by one of the extra guards who wasn't otherwise occupied was just par for the course, honestly.

"Hey!" The guard was a fast runner, Vince decided as he veered off the usual path. If he remembered correctly, there were a few trees a reasonably fit male (usually one with an insane amount of gymnastics training or a vigilante career under his belt) could climb with few problems.

The vigilante leapt for the lower branches, scrambling up out of sight just as the man who'd been chasing him thundered into the same clearing. Vince was sure one of them (probably him) was overreacting to the whole situation. Considering that he was supposed to be dead, though…

Vince watched the ARK trooper search the clearing for a few minutes before leaving, talking into his radio. The former police officer breathed a sigh of relief and hauled himself up to another set of branches. He'd have to head for the other side of the park, or at least to another path, via the trees.

Twenty minutes later, Vince had achieved a new level of appreciation for squirrels and gymnasts. His hands and knees were sore from how often he'd had to climb trees, and how many times he'd nearly fallen to the ground. He'd also discovered that all of the running trails in the park had checkpoints on them, which meant he'd have to find a new route to run on when he needed to think.

The former police officer pulled his scarf back up around his face and dropped to the ground from a lower branch. He took off running at an easy lope as soon as he was sure of his place on terra firma. Getting back to his cave wouldn't be a problem from here.

He really needed to discuss getting a paper trail and ID with Orwell…

Twenty minutes later, Vince was back at the hideout. He discovered just what Orwell and Anarchy had been up to all day: They'd been researching the Jackals and the last mission he'd run before finally acquiring enough blackmail to secure retirement for everyone on his team. It had been so wonderful to finally be able to have time with Dana…

The vigilante pulled himself out of his more pleasant memories and leaned over Orwell's shoulder to read the information. Everything was exactly as he remembered, if a little more clinical in the retelling than it had actually been. Reports were like that.

"Morning Vince," Anarchy said, taking a sip of his coffee. Judging by the number of empty coffee filters in the trashcan under the hotplate, and how wide-awake he and Orwell looked, it probably wasn't his first cup. Wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but Vince was pretty sure the clerk at the corner market he bought his coffee at was beginning to recognize him on sight.

"Morning," Vince replied. He'd gotten used to the second hacker over the past few days. The multicolored neon hairstyles had grown on him. Like a bad case of fungus or mold, but they'd grown on him. At least the man was quiet and unobtrusive, as far as personality went. Good hacker, though—not that he'd say that in front of Orwell.

"We're out of coffee," Orwell commented, stirring a packet of sugar into her cup. "Again." The vigilante sighed, rubbing his temples. Maybe he'd take the clerk up on his offer and just get caffeine IVs for the two junkies currently living with him.

"I'll get some more," he sighed, flopping down on his sofa. His bed had been taken over by a duffel bag with hardware sticking out of it, along with a mountain of paper. It was typical—at least he could spend time with Dana now, although he wasn't about to turn the apartment into his base of operations. That would have been…awkward.

"Thanks," Orwell said, eyes focused on another line of text. "A-hah! There it is!" She was practically laughing now, and sharing high-fives and yells of triumph with Anarchy. Vince gave a mental shrug. Maybe they'd uncovered the Ultimate Question or something…

"I _knew_ the DoJ wasn't that hard to crack with two!"

Vince pulled a pillow over his face and wondered how long it would take to smother himself. He shouldn't have asked.

"Vince, sweetie," Anarchy said half an hour later, breaking the silence. Vince pulled the pillow off his face and glared at the green-haired hacker. The spikes had been traded in for a Mohawk, which wasn't helping. "_Wow_, is your face red. Were you trying to kill yourself, or just breathing hard?" Anarchy asked.

"Get back on track," Vince rasped, seriously considering—not for the first time—the possible upsides to murder. Anarchy held up his hands defensively.

"Alright. Listen, we have a job for you." Vince glared up at Anarchy, wondering if a broken nose would make the hacker talk faster—like Orwell after one too many espresso shots, or beers. "We need you to tell us which files are most relevant to Al-Amman. Because we've downloaded everything off the Department of Justice mainframe, and we're too lazy to sift through it ourselves," he added, seeing Vince's look.

Vince decided not to question the man's squirrel-powered, red bull-fueled logic and padded over to the computers to help out.

- o – o -

And that was how he'd found himself on a rooftop in the wee hours of the morning, waiting for Fleming to send his bodyguard away so that he—the crazy vigilante—could break in again. He was still cold.

Vince was about ready to cheer when the bodyguard finally left and Peter crawled into bed. He'd set up the tightrope an hour ago, and was thanking whatever god was looking over him that no one had spotted it. He was forgoing the pole this time, and had opted for hand-over-hand instead. It was easier and much less terrifying. (The vigilante chose to ignore the fact that he was hanging upside down from a thin metal rope, nearly five-hundred feet away from the nearest hard surface.)

Fleming's penthouse hadn't changed much since he'd first gone through it last year. The same creepy artwork was up on the walls, and the drapes were still pulled out of the way. The window in the living room with the piano in it had been repaired. Vince wondered if there was a story behind why it latched on the outside, but decided not to question his good luck as he slid in.

"I expected you five minutes ago," a voice drawled.

Vince decided his good luck was really bad luck, and resolved to throw Peter out a window as soon as this case was over.

"Nice to know I'm wanted, Peter," Vince replied, dropping into his "vigilante rasp," as Dana called it. "I have information."

"Really?" Peter drawled, sounding surprised. "I thought you just wanted to see me!" He actually sounded _hurt_, a little voice in the back of Vince's mind muttered. Obviously it just went to show that with a massive fortune came massive insanity as well. Oh well.

"Shut up!" Vince barked, not in the mood for games. "Sit down," he added, pointing at a chair next to the bed. "We've got a common problem, I have potential answers. Here. Enjoy. Good bye." Vince left without another word, still fuming slightly that his plan of scaring the hell out of Fleming wasn't going to work. (The outside latch on the new window should have tipped him off to that one, honestly.)

- o – o -

Chess waited until he was sure the vigilante was gone before laughing softly to himself. Being the one to drive was fun, once in a while. Around _his_ vigilante, it was even more fun. He picked up the bag and began pawing through the contents.

By the time the criminal mastermind had finished reading the files, it was almost dawn and his head was spinning. How he'd ever managed to kill and frame not one, but _two_ Jackals was beyond him. (Maybe they were secretly running their own chess game, in which case he should have tried to keep Vincent alive for longer…)

He looked at the camera in the ridiculously small phone Peter kept on his person. "Peter, while I don't appreciate being locked up for nearly a month, I will forgive you _completely_ if you just tie the Cape up and bugger him senseless."

Let his alter-ego ponder that for a few days. Chess sighed in regret and slid back into the recesses of Peter's mind to enjoy some peace and quiet—and his latest fantasy.

"Bloody hell, not again," Peter groaned. The spilling migraine he had could only mean one thing:

Chess was back. Bugger.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Looking forward to more of Chess hitting on Vince? Drop a line and let me know!


	12. Black Moon Rising

Hey, it's a new chapter! Be warned: Samuels is especially psychotic in this chapter, and it is _**completely **_deserving of the M rating. There is a warning, and it may be wise to heed it.

Un-beta'ed.

- o – o -

Chapter twelve: Black Moon Rising

Dana paced around her apartment, chewing on the side of her thumb as she thought. She'd gotten a phone call from Jack half an hour ago. He'd jokingly accused her of avoiding him, before asking if she was swamped with work. The sad thing was… She actually _was_ kind of avoiding him. Ever since Vince had revealed that he was actually the Cape, she'd been trying to avoid Jack. Even if Vince was legally supposed to be dead, he was still alive; Dana didn't want to break her vows.

The public defender sighed and flopped down on her sofa. She'd spent most of the day going over evidence and statements with her least favorite client. Quite frankly, he was beginning to weird her out a little. Considering that it was Scales, though, Dana was surprised it had taken longer than four days to do that.

So far, they'd determined that ARK couldn't say, with one-hundred percent accuracy, that Scales was the shooter. There were no cameras in the area, and the only one who could testify against the smuggler was a vigilante whose real identity was supposed to be dead. All in all, it was the perfect crime. Which was why it was so annoying…

Dana practically jumped off the couch when she heard someone tapping on the living room window. She turned around and smiled as she saw her husband perched outside on the fire escape, hand raised to tap on the window again. The public defender crossed the living room to unlatch the window and let him in, mentally giving thanks that her son's bodyguard/watchdog sat out in the hall during the evenings to prevent intruders or reporters from getting into the apartment.

"Hello Dana," Vince rasped, stepping into the apartment. Dana smiled and pulled him down for a kiss. They resurfaced for air a few minutes later, breaking the kiss reluctantly. It really had been too long since they'd been able to do that.

"Hey you," Dana replied softly. She led him into the kitchen and pulled a plate out of the microwave, where she'd warmed the contents fifteen minutes ago. Vince fell on the food like a starving animal; given his chosen career, Dana couldn't blame him. Being a vigilante burned a lot of calories, and probably didn't lend itself to regular meals every day.

After Vince had finished his food, he looked up at Dana. She'd been staring at him with an odd expression on her face, one that made him rather uncomfortable. "Dana? Is something wrong?"

Dana started out of her thoughts and smiled, shaking her head. "No. No, I was just thinking…" She trailed off. "I talked to Jack earlier today. He accused me of avoiding him."

The vigilante sitting across from her had an odd expression on his face. "Did you tell him about…?" He gestured between them, trying to say something he didn't want to voice.

"Not in so many words," Dana replied. "I… Would you at least _consider_ letting him in on this little secret?" She was using the same wheedling tone she'd used when they were first married and she was trying to convince him to shave—his grooming habits had slipped a little after leaving the military. "Jack is one of my only friends left, after everything that happened with you and ARK, after all…"

Vince sighed in defeat and Dana knew she'd won without even trying. It was good to be her, some days.

- o – o -

Vince waited for the inevitable call from Orwell. He was expecting her call to be loud enough to rupture his eardrum. After all, she'd had enough problems with him letting his _wife_ in on the secret. What was wrong with Orwell, for that matter? She was acting like a jealous teenager who'd just learned her father was dating again after a divorce or similar twist of life…

He brushed the thought aside for later and headed for the hideout. It was nearly six in the morning, and the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon behind him. He was also bone tired and wanted to sleep, without having to deal with the fact that he'd broken into Fleming's penthouse two nights ago, and had had dinner with his wife (and agreed to let Jack in on the secret) tonight.

The vigilante knew some things were too much to hope for as soon as he entered his cave. Orwell and Anarchy were having some kind of row, and it was getting explosive. He wondered what it would take to get both of them to sit still and shut up for at least twenty minutes in each other's presence… Aside from a massive dose of horse tranquilizers, of course.

Vince headed for his bathroom, intent on at least washing the dirt off his face before having to speak with the two screwy squirrels out in the main section of the cave. Patrols were starting to get lethal again, no doubt thanks to rumors that Scales was going to be out of prison soon. (Vince felt rather unhappy with that fact, but he wasn't going to tell Dana, his darling wife who upheld the law…even if she didn't like it, sometimes.)

Five minutes later, Vince was clad in his off-duty uniform of sweatpants and a ratty green t-shirt that had truly seen better days. Orwell and Anarchy were really going at it now; Vince avoided the argument and pulled himself up onto his bed. The funny thing about hacker fights was that they could devolve into all-out brawls, but they'd never go near their computer setups if they could help it.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a meaty-sounding thump and a few muffled curses. The vigilante spared the two a look and sighed, rolling onto his side so he was looking at the wall.

Anarchy was going to make a big production out of the shiner he'd have later, Vince just knew it.

- o – o -

Peter paced around his penthouse, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He was not worried. Worrying was for lesser men who didn't have criminal psychopaths with genius-level intelligences sharing a body with them. He was about to go out of his mind with…well, terror. (More out of his mind than he already was, of course; one had to take Chess into account, after all.)

There was a simple reason for this: Chess had, for once, begun volunteering information and his suspicions. That the psychopath was telling him these things, without snarky commentary as an unwanted bonus, was worrisome. If Chess had been a separate person, Peter would have immediately put him in the hospital to be checked over for some sort of illness. As it was, the willingness to volunteer information was making him sit up and take notice.

As to his psychiatrist…

Peter growled something obscene under his breath and began pacing again, feeling more and more agitated. Chess' suspicions had rarely, if ever, proven to be wrong. That the psychopath suspected Doctor Samuels of having a connection to the serial killer currently terrorizing Palm City said something about Chess' opinion of the man. And yet…

Therein lay the problem: Chess made things far too believable for them to be ignored. When certain facts were added together, such as Chess agreeing with something Samuels said, it was beginning to look like a possibility.

_And yet, you still won't listen to my comments regarding Orwell_, Chess grumbled.

"It's not like you've given me a valid reason," Peter murmured in reply, stalking over to the sidebar so he could get something to drink. It was far easier to converse with his other half when he could hide his side of the conversation. The last thing he needed right now were strange looks from his staff. Even Charles, with his loyalty, wasn't loyal enough to keep his suspicions of health issues to himself. (Peter wondered what he'd have to pay the man to get him to keep his mouth shut when conversing with Samuels, before deciding it wasn't worth it.)

_Oh, I would, but then you'd do something stupid_, Chess replied. As to what Chess would consider stupid, Peter didn't know. _Now that hurts, right here_, the psychopath replied, catching the tail end of Peter's thought.

"Of course it would, you moron," Peter replied, sticking to childish insults. Chess used them often enough, so why couldn't he?

_Fine_, Chess muttered sullenly. _But you should still consider doing something about that shrink of yours. He's…not well_.

And coming from Chess, that said a _lot_.

- o – o -

Philips had never considered claustrophobia to be one of his problems. He had the usual fears—clowns, heights, narrow bridges—but he'd never been afraid of enclosed spaces. The security guard was beginning to understand why some people hated enclosed spaces with a passion, though. Being locked in the basement of Samuels' home, which seemed a lot smaller in the dark, wasn't good for anyone's mental health. He kind of wondered how long his colleagues had lasted before their minds had snapped, before discarding the thought as a little too morbid to contemplate at the moment.

The biggest question on his mind concerned the connections his subconscious had made a few nights ago (or had it been yesterday night?). Somehow, his subconscious had come up with the idea that Vince Faraday had survived the explosion and had become the Cape. Oddly—or perhaps it was the insanity setting in, finally—the idea made sense. It explained a lot of the more vendetta-like qualities of the vigilante, and why there had never really been a one-hundred percent _positive_ ID of the body recovered at the scene. Faraday's widow hadn't been allowed to identify the body; in fact… None of the deceased cop's friends or family had been asked to ID the mangled, charred remains that had been recovered.

It figured that insanity and imprisonment would be just the things to allow him to have these stunning leaps of logic.

The man groaned and hid his face behind his hands. Of course he was going insane, which led him to another conclusion: All psychiatrists must have some odd hobby, like being a serial killer on their off days, so they could improve their study of the human mind. Philips had _no_ desire to help advance the cause of science and mental health if this was the result.

Philips rubbed his temples, thinking. His lower abdomen was still aching, as were his legs, ankles, and wrists. He'd made a mental list of his injuries, but was fairly sure he'd erased or suppressed the list because he was in too much pain to want to know what was causing it. The headache was the result of the black eye, the one that was swollen shut, and getting his head slammed into a cement wall a few times.

The ceiling creaked and Philips felt his heart stop for a second. It was evening already. Doctor Whackjob was back, which meant he'd be getting another visit. Philips felt his mind wander back to his love of horror movies. He liked it when the bad guys and the psychos had motivations for their level of depravity. He'd hated the last Hostel movie because it was pointless, but liked Saw because the motivations were good and the villain was psychotically likeable. Samuels was like the second Hostel movie: A pointless horror flick with an attempt to put as much gore as possible on-screen. Unfortunately, it was looking like he wasn't going to be as lucky as the hero of the movie.

The security officer rolled onto his side, wincing at the sharp jab of pain in his side. If he was quicker this time, he could make it out of the basement, and possibly out the front door this time. Sure, he'd endured a few days of being locked in the dark without food or water, but he could survive a few more minutes if he could just escape…

With that cheering thought, Philips rolled off the cot. He came up in a painful crouch, one hand pressed against his abdomen. The security guard clenched his jaw, determined to make it up the stairs. He was sure he had enough bruises to down an elephant, but he was still able to walk, which was half the battle.

The G.I. Joe theme song was now firmly entrenched in his mind, but Philips considered that a small price to pay for an escape attempt. He hobbled painfully up the stairs, not bothering to question the luck that had made Samuels forget to lock the cage door before he'd left for work. Getting out of the basement meant he'd have to wait for the psychiatrist, though. The security officer crouched on the top step, muscles tense and coiled, ready to spring into action at a seconds notice.

Samuels barely had time to react when he opened the door to the basement. Philips knocked him down with a roar and a tackle that would have made his football coach proud back in high school. He hit the slick linoleum floor of the kitchen, skidding a little on the surface that was so different from the rough cement in the basement.

Philips ran for the back door he'd seen once, praying it was unlocked. It was, and he pelted out the door to freedom. As his luck went, though, it had to run out as soon as he stepped out the back door. He was in the middle of nowhere, on the back porch of a nice looking cabin. The only conclusion he could reach about his current location was that it was in the middle of nowhere, and the middle of nowhere was probably the Wolf Creek state park.

He was screwed.

Still, that didn't mean he couldn't run. ARK had a company policy that the security troops—no matter what they were actually going to do later—had to go through physical training that made the combined might of the world's special forces look like little girls. The combat-oriented troops and police officers in Palm City had to undergo a modified version of SERE training. Among the courses offered for the truly insane or dedicated was wilderness survival. Philips had sailed through both with flying colors and a minimum of effort.

He could survive a few days in the woods until he found a park ranger. With that in mind, Philips headed for the stairs off the porch, feeling optimistic for the first time since he'd been abducted.

And really, he should have expected Samuels to be some sort of sociopathic energizer bunny. The tranq rifle was nicer than the crowbar to the head a week ago.

- o **Potential Triggering Content** o -

Philips awoke strapped to the operating table at the other end of the basement he'd been imprisoned in for the past week. He was missing his clothes, again, and the straps across his chest, wrists, and hips were sticking uncomfortably. The temperature in the basement had gone up considerably, or it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

The man looked around, as much as he could in the restraints. Samuels was at the far wall, washing his hands. Philips recognized the procedure from watching stupid medical dramas with Kia. (He preferred his old horror movies or football games.) Doctor Whackjob was scrubbing for surgery—which was infinitely more worrisome than anything the man had done so far. Philips looked away and his eyes fell on a tray of surgical tools, and an IV line that led up to a bag filled with a clear liquid. He hoped it was saline, and knew it probably wasn't.

"Oh good. You're awake," Samuels said conversationally. The man walked over and studied the drip bag, a contemplative look on his face. "It says something that the evidence officers never notice when something goes missing. I will have to commend Mr. Chandler for his work someday—this paralytic is superb."

Philips decided not to comment on the fanboy-crush tone in Samuels' voice. Although, if the man were telling the truth (and he probably was), he wouldn't be able to anyways. Philips tried twitching his fingers experimentally and mentally swore as they refused to move. Since he'd apparently stumbled into the plot of a horror film, the security officer guessed that his only ability would be to blink his eyes. Shit.

"Now, obviously I'm getting tired of the escape attempts. My back can't take many more," Samuels continued, picking up a scalpel. "I'd take your eyes out, but I save my trophy collecting for when I've finished."

_Psychotic prick_, Philips thought viciously. _I hope you choke on mine and die_.

"So," he said with a smile, "I'll just remove your ability to walk." As he began methodically cutting into the skin on Philips' ankles, Samuels began whistling.

Philips squeezed his eyes shut and wished the paralytic had knocked him out.

- o – o -

Well, what did you think? Good? Bad? Need me to get to the point and kill Samuels already? Drop a line and let me know.


	13. Up Is Down

Hey, it's a new chapter! Woo boy, is this one cruel. Fair warning, as soon as Samuels' part comes up, be on the look out for nightmare fuel, accidental or otherwise. You have been warned.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter Thirteen: Up is Down

Vince had absolutely no idea why he was poking around the dump site. It had already been picked clean by the CSI's, and the mountain of dirt hiding the site had been pulled down and sifted for more clues. No one had found anything, but the site was still quarantined. The vigilante slipped under the yellow tape, feeling mildly guilty about breaking procedure. Of course, he hadn't operated with a badge in almost a year, so the guilt was only a mild twinge.

The vigilante paced around the very edge of the perimeter, scanning the ground in a grid. If the CSIs had missed anything, it would have been exceptionally small, or buried. The buried evidence theory was probably a crapshoot though, seeing as ARK had brought in a backhoe to dig up the entire area so they could sift the dirt down to six feet. Vince had heard rumors that the area was going to be turned into a community garden after Philips was recovered, dead or alive. (Despite his hatred of the man, Vince was honestly rooting for the man to come back alive.)

He sighed and began a spiral search pattern from the center of the site outwards. He honestly wasn't expecting to find anything—avoiding the cave was his primary motivation. Anarchy and Orwell were having what amounted to a virtual cock contest as they tried to find more data than the other that could relate to the killings. The Jackals' files hadn't produced much, and even contacting them directly hadn't done much. (Well, aside from Sergeant Hanson, who'd threatened to use them for target practice after he tracked them down. Corporal Hartman's psychiatrist had refused to let them speak to his patient.)

Vince stopped his search pattern and pulled a penlight out of his pocket. He could have sworn he'd seen something flash in what little light had filtered down into the alley from the moon. The vigilante moved the penlight slowly in an arc, hoping to spot whatever it was. It was probably spare change or a rat, or a lighter…

He froze as the light glanced off of something too big to be spare change or a small animal. It was a video camera, half buried in the dirt outside the search area. Vince pulled his gloves back on and picked the camera up, brushing dirt off the casing with trembling fingers. A video camera, if the CSIs hadn't forgotten it, was invaluable proof. He just hoped that Orwell, Anarchy, or even—God forbid—the ARK techs could get the video off of it.

He pulled the camera strap over his head and headed for the tape. This was the only thing he needed at the moment. If it belonged to the CSIs, he'd stick it in the mail for them.

Vince straddled his motorcycle and headed for the lair.

- o – o -

Orwell and Anarchy had finally abandoned their contest by the time Vince arrived back at the lair. The two hackers were staring at the coffeepot like a pair of cats, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. Vince was half tempted to spike it with catnip some day to see what happened. Maybe they'd act like his sister-in-law's old cat and go into drugged-out comas or something.

"How are the two of you at data recovery?" Vince asked, breaking in on the hackers' coffeepot vigil. They glared at him, until the words "data recovery" registered with them. They grabbed the camera away from Vince and rushed over to their bank of computers, talking in terms that Vince couldn't even _pretend_ he understood.

Twenty minutes later, a very pale Orwell came over.

"Vince…as much as I hate to say this, we need to send a copy of this to ARK."

If Orwell thought they needed to share information with ARK, then it was _Bad_ with a capital B. Vince sighed and pulled his costume back on. He was heading back out again, and he didn't even know what was on the tape.

- o – o -

Peter was sitting at his desk when the vigilante appeared in front of him. The billionaire sat back in his chair, an expectant look on his face. This wasn't the first time the vigilante had come into his penthouse in the middle of the night, after all. He wondered what was going to be dropped in his lap this time.

"Hello Peter," the vigilante rasped. He held something out. "I found new evidence. It's bad." Judging by the man's tone, it _was_.

"Should I ask how bad it is?" Peter asked, looking at the package on his desk. He looked up when he received no answer. The only sign the vigilante had been there was a faint smell of smoke and the open window. He sighed. He _hated_ it when the vigilante did that.

_I want to figure out if he teleports or not_, Chess muttered.

"Quiet," Peter replied, unwrapping the case. He'd have turned it over to forensics for prints, but he was more interested in evidence than catching the vigilante at the moment. His fingerprints were going to be all over this in a minute.

Peter pushed the play button as soon as the CD was in the disc player. Five minutes later, he was bending over the trashcan, emptying the contents of his stomach into the bin. The video continued playing in the background, rolling the gruesome statistics and information related to the footage of torture.

The Appraiser had filmed the torture of every single ARK man he'd abducted. Even though he'd muted the sound to keep his staff from coming in to check on him, Peter could hear each and every scream perfectly. Even taking his own sordid past into account, the billionaire couldn't imagine how depraved someone had to be to do something like that. Chess' kills had always been quick, even if they hadn't been clean.

Fifteen minutes later, Peter had finished rinsing his mouth. He'd also used half a bottle of Listerine to get rid of the foul taste of bile, but that wasn't important.

_Peter, let me drive. You can't handle this_, Chess murmured. It said something that the psychopath had such a soothing voice. It was also disturbing. _Peter… Peter, you _can't_ handle this. Let me drive until this is over._

"Not bloody likely," Peter snapped in reply. He looked over at the screen, which was finally winding down to the last minutes of film. He swore profusely as he finally caught sight of the psychopath.

"On second thought, Chess…"

Doctor Samuels was going to be a very, _very_ dead man by the time Chess was finished with him…

- o – o -

Samuels was in a very bad mood. His video camera was missing—he'd documented _all_ of his cases on that damn thing! His guest downstairs was beginning to crack, and he had no way to fucking document it. To say he was in a bad mood was an understatement. The doctor sighed and slumped down in his leather armchair, rubbing his face with one hand.

Perhaps he'd just misplaced it. He could find it later, after he checked on his guest. Samuels stood up and adjusted his coat; appearances were important, after all. The psychiatrist walked over to the basement door and undid the locks. He knew having that many locks on one door looked suspicious, but he'd always been able to pass it off as a safety measure for when he had patients in residence. It said something that the inspectors believed him. (Of course, he was also paying them not to look, but that wasn't the point.)

He descended the stairs at a sedate pace, mentally going over the places he might have put the camera so he could check them later. His guest, young Jacob Philips, was lying on his side. The young man's eyes were closed, and his breathing was shallow. The bandages around his ankles were bloody again.

Samuels sighed as he took in the signs. It had been a week since he'd first brought this subject home. The others had lasted longer than this… Of course, the others hadn't been nearly as tenacious in their escape attempts. The majority of them had been under the impression that he'd let them go—or give them a mercy kill, in their last few days—once he was done with whatever he was doing. Philips, on the other hand…

He was special. Philips had something the others hadn't… He had a singular will to live. Even the men who'd been married, and had had children, hadn't been this obscenely dedicated to escaping. The psychiatrist had to wonder what made this latest man different from the others. What did he have to live for that the others hadn't?

"Philips," Samuels said gently, placing a hand on the young man's shoulder. Philips moaned in pain. "Jacob, wake up." He shook the younger man, gently at first, and then grew more insistent when the security officer squeezed his eyes shut instead.

"Go 'way dad," Philips mumbled, almost inaudibly. "'s a Saturday…" He brushed Samuels' hands away, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. Samuels sighed impatiently and grabbed the hose from its stand. Philips jerked away the second the jet of ice water blasted into his side.

"Good evening, Jacob," Samuels said pleasantly, turning the icy cold spray of water off. He hung the hose back up and sat down at the table. "How are you?"

"Piss off," Philips grumbled tiredly. The paralytic was still leaving his system, and seemed to have mutated into a sedative. Samuels smiled at him.

"I'm afraid our time together is coming to a close," the doctor said, sounding almost sad. Philips curled up instinctively, not even bothering to hide his whimper of pain as his ankles dragged against the cot. Samuels had done a decent job of slicing through the tendons and nerves, effectively crippling him. It would take surgery and a lot of therapy before he'd even be able to think about hobbling around with assistance, Philips knew.

"It's a pity to lose a specimen like you," the psychiatrist continued. "I was so sure I'd get what I needed with you, but… Well, that's what you get, I suppose." He smiled kindly at Philips, although the smile disappeared when Philips made a rude gesture. "But, I suppose you should know that your time here has been well spent. I've got several new theories now, and it's a pity you won't get to see them come into play."

"Bet you say that to all the guys," Philips slurred. He closed his eyes and tried not to cry as Samuels picked up a familiar bag of clear liquid. The paralytic dulled his senses somewhat, but not enough that he could ignore everything the psychotic doctor was doing to him. Philips prayed that Samuels would just get bored enough to kill him quickly, now, and knew the man wouldn't.

Samuels moved off him half an hour later. Oh so gently, he wiped the tears off Philips' face with a clean white hankerchief.

"Good boy," he murmured softly, rubbing Philips' cheek. He left the room, not bothering to disconnect the IV from Philips' arm.

Philips wished he could die.

- o – o -

What did you think? Good? Bad? Want to put down your two cents on how Samuels should die? Drop a line and let me know.


	14. Red Is Blue

Hey, it's a new chapter! Philips gets some answers, and ARK gears up for a rampage.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter fourteen: Red Is Blue

Cutting out the worst of the videotapes probably would have been a better idea, in the short run. In the long run, it wouldn't have mattered—ARK would have been out for blood anyways. While some of the residents of Palm City saw them as thugs and bootlicking toadies to Peter Fleming, everyone was well aware of the fact that the ARK troopers stuck together and protected their own. Even the janitors in ARK Towers stuck with the troopers; from the top to the bottom, ARK Corporation stuck together.

Loyalty was a precious commodity in the rest of the world; ARK had loyalty in spades. If one of their own was missing or in trouble, the rest of the company could be expected to pull together for them—even if a lawsuit was involved. The Palm City Police Department's old hands who'd transferred to ARK after the take-over had been amazed by how seriously the troopers took the "Thin Blue Line"—which, in their case, was more of an impenetrable blue wall.

The ARK troopers who'd worked closely with Philips had been put in detention in the holding cells under ARK Towers to prevent them from mauling anyone who looked suspicious. Given what they'd seen on the videotape, it wasn't so surprising. The rumor was that the Cape had given the tape to Fleming; the general consensus was that Philips would be rescued, and _then_ they'd maul the vigilante.

Loyalty was a very big thing in ARK. Unfortunately, the loyalty that transcended barriers within ARK Corporation did not extend to the press, or the press officers (whom everyone agreed were scum). Within three hours of the tape's release, the presses were sharing information and writing stories that would only make the average trooper even crazier with rage.

Thomas Sexton, Officer Philips' direct superior, was unavailable for comment. Officially, he was going over evidence with a fine-toothed comb. Unofficially, he was putting fist-sized holes into the break room walls. No one bothered to tell him to stop.

- o – o -

Sexton stopped putting his fist through the wall when Sawyer walked into the break room.

"Coffee ready?" Sawyer asked, pointedly ignoring the plaster dust marring the front of Sexton's uniform. He sat down at the table in the center of the room, the only surface not covered with plaster dust or bits of wall. The security officer would have brought up the possibility of anger management lessons or counseling, but he wasn't suicidal. He had kids to look after.

"Yeah. It's…covered in plaster," Sexton sighed in annoyance. He slouched over to the table and slumped down in a seat. "I…may have gone a bit far," the man admitted as he looked around the room. The only untouched wall in the room had the door, and that was probably because Sexton had tried punching a hole through it yet.

"Just a bit," Sawyer replied, using a spoon to scoop bits of plaster out of the coffee. "Couldn't you have covered the coffeepot first, at least?" He and Sexton laughed at that. Coffee was the one thing everyone in ARK held sacred and would go to extreme lengths never to damage. It was, after all, the reason all of them made it through shift.

"Wasn't thinking," Sexton grunted, pulling a water bottle out of the fridge. He cracked the seal on the lid and took a sip. The man looked at the bottle in his hand, an odd look on his face. "Do you think the prick that's got him knows he's got allergies, or that he prefers water at room temperature?"

Sawyer stared at Sexton. The Lidless Wonder had actual human emotions… Holy shit, if only he had a tape recorder with him.

"No," Sawyer replied. There was no point in sugar coating what they both knew wasn't going to happen. "You saw the same thing I did. If Philips is alive, we'll be lucky if he can even string two words together."

"Shit," Sexton muttered, leaning against the fridge door. "Why can't you just sugarcoat something, for once?" he asked his friend.

Sawyer smirked. "When you tell me how you're able to do the lidless wonder trick, I might." He left, carrying a mug of mostly plaster-free coffee with him. Alright, so they hadn't managed to completely erase the trauma, but for a few minutes, they'd managed some small conversation that wasn't focused on how utterly fucked ARK's investigation currently was.

- o – o -

Peter Fleming, the richest man in Palm City, was in a bit of a quandary. The day before, the Cape had given him information that was probably going to lead to the capture of the serial killer that seemed to have some special hatred for ARK Corporation's employees. That wasn't what was bothering him, however. After the first few unwanted visits from the vigilante, Fleming had started recording the meetings with the man. He'd even begun running voice analysis on them, in the hopes of coming up with some sort of match.

Well, he'd found one.

The billionaire strode into the sitting room of his penthouse and flopped down on one of the sofas. He had the file on his laptop—an ARK model that wasn't due on the market for another six months—and it was causing him no end of grief. Somehow, some way, Vince Faraday had survived the blast that was supposed to have killed him.

_He is unkillable_, Chess said with a note of appreciation in his voice. _I wonder what else he could survive…_

"He's still married," Peter replied, covering the words with his mug of coffee. "I somehow doubt he'd be willing to join us in bed…"

_More's the pity_, Chess muttered unhappily.

"No doubt," Peter nodded. Judging by everything he'd been able to uncover on Faraday, especially prior to his work with the Palm City Police Department, the man had been one hell of a specimen. He'd joined West Point at the age of sixteen (he'd been exceptionally brilliant and lucky, in that case), had graduated with honors… The only thing that didn't make sense was why he'd been put in charge of a gang of murderous psychopaths on his first tour, at the tender age of twenty, rather than being sent somewhere where he could learn the ropes.

_I wonder if he'd be top or bottom…_

"Chess…" Peter said warningly. His alter-ego retreated, sulking. Alright, the other man did have a point, but still.

_Fine_, grumbled Chess. _You still owe me some time in the driver's seat_.

"Soon enough," Peter replied, closing the file on Faraday. After a few seconds, he deleted it. Somehow, letting anyone else have access to the information seemed…wrong.

_Someone's in love_.

- o – o -

Philips hated feeling helpless. Being injured only made the feeling worse; every time he went to the hospital, his usual doctor put him out with a sedative before trying anything. (The security officer wasn't a difficult patient for nothing, after all.) Two days ago, Doctor Whacko had severed the tendons and nerves in his ankles, making it impossible to escape. (Philips wished he hadn't brushed his nieces off when they'd offered to teach him how to walk on his hands.)

Being crippled while under the dubious care of Samuels—the psycho who'd kidnapped him almost two weeks ago—wasn't helping his blood pressure. The security guard was doing crunches to relieve the boredom and give himself something else to focus on, other than the blood-soaked bandages around his ankles and the cold ball of fear in his gut. It wasn't working too well. If he was judging the time right, he had about an hour before Samuels came back to the cabin from work in the city.

One of the more-or-less helpful benefits of his captivity was that his ability to calculate time was getting better. His abs were also getting more defined—and he'd gone up to a hundred fifty crunches in a minute. Passing that section of the yearly ARK personnel physical was going to be easy. The running… Well, maybe he could convince them to let him skive that off. He wrapped his arms around his knees and stared at the reddish-brown bandages around his ankles. Of course, they'd have to keep him employed first…

Philips flopped back on the thin mattress with a groan. He wasn't escaping anyways; who was he kidding? Even if he, by some miracle, survived the ordeal and managed to escape, he wouldn't have a job anymore. ARK wouldn't keep him on—he had no administrative skills, and his paperwork was just barely good enough to pass muster. Added to that, he was crippled.

The security officer bit back a soft sob of fear when the door at the top of the stairs opened. God knew what Samuels was going to do to him this time. The paralytic had worn off—the bag had been empty for the past eight hours, but he was still sluggish. There would be no way he could fend off an…

Philips froze as Samuels picked him up, being unusually gentle. Compared to the past week-and-a-half, the surprising display of tenderness worried Philips more than if the psychiatrist had come down the stairs with blood in his eye and a hatchet in hand. (Quite honestly, he'd have preferred the hatchet. At least the possibility of death would have given him some measure of peace.)

Samuels carried him up the stairs, being careful not to let the security guard's feet brush against the door. He set the younger man down in a wheelchair and duct taped his ankles to the leg rests. The psychiatrist had enough presence of mind to keep Philips' pants legs pulled down to protect his skin from the adhesive in the tape, although the security officer would have welcomed the slow, painful death by allergy at this point.

Philips didn't even react when the psychiatrist tightened the zip ties around his wrists to painful, constricting tightness. Samuels wheeled him into a room the security officer had never seen. It looked a bit like a psychiatrist's office, crossed with an operating room and a home theater. Philips had only seen combinations like that in horror movies, so it wasn't exactly the most comfortable feeling—he didn't need a reminder that he was basically living out a horror film.

"Good evening, Jacob," Samuels said pleasantly. He held a cup with a straw up to Philips' lips, silently encouraging the man to drink. Philips hesitated for a few seconds, and took a tentative sip. Cold, clear, _pure_ water met his lips; he began drinking eagerly, trying to make his mouth feel a little less like the Sahara Desert or an old shoe.

"Thank you," Philips rasped, more out of inherent politeness than anything else. Being polite to his subconscious—an annoyingly accurate representation of the Cape, as a corpse, with Faraday's face and voice—had been what kept him…mostly sane. Arguing with yourself did not a sane person make, after all.

"Of course," Samuels replied, grandfatherly smile in place. It sent a shiver down the security officer's spine, like someone had walked over his grave. "You know…" he began, tone as pleasant as always. "You have to be the most fascinating specimen I've ever had."

Philips glared at him, not willing to say more, or anything that would get him beaten.

"Of course, you still haven't fulfilled my little project," his captor continued, tone verging into disappointment. Philips flinched, more out of instinct than anything else. "It's…disappointing. So, so very disappointing…"

"Bite me," Philips rasped. "Your experiment can go fuck itself, and the horse it rode in on." His head snapped back, and he tasted blood. Philips couldn't help but feel he'd won the argument… What? He couldn't have his private mental fantasies of superiority at this point? Life wasn't fair.

"You have no idea what I'm trying to do," Samuels snapped, rubbing his knuckles. "My only goal is to help my patient get better, and to do that, I need to understand what happened to him!"

Philips had a good idea where this conversation was headed, and he didn't like it.

"Peter Fleming is my number one priority. If I'm going to rid him of Chess, that annoying second personality of his, I have to understand what created that insane bastard in the first place!"

Philips blinked. Alright, he'd assumed this entire psychotic episode had something to do with Fleming, but… Chess was a second personality? Wow. Fleming had more problems than the office pool said he did.

And every ARK trooper and worker who'd been abducted had been tortured past their breaking points in an attempt to cure him of those problems. Philips was just the latest—and somehow, most promising—failure.

Somehow, that wasn't exactly comforting.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Want to see ARK kick Samuels' ass? Drop a line and let me know?

Oh, and updating is going to be a little sporadic over the next few weeks. I'm in the middle of helping remodel a bathroom. But I only have two reviewers who actively read this, so who cares?


	15. All Or Nothing

Hey, it's a new chapter! Things are definitely coming up to crunch time now.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter fifteen: All or Nothing

Thomas Sexton had worked for ARK since he was eighteen—minus the four years he'd been acquiring a college degree so he could qualify for a better position in the pecking order of the ARK security troops. The company was like his family, and he'd learned one thing from his father before going to ARK: Family looks out for family, and you'd better learn to hide the bodies that cropped up if your family was threatened. In this case, though, Sexton wasn't looking for hiding places for the bodies so much as he was looking for a common origin.

The evidence room covered most of the tenth floor of ARK Towers, with a break room on the other side of the low dividing wall. Desks were scattered around the room for anyone going over evidence for cases. Sexton was the only one in the room, given the late hour. He had four desks shoved together to make a decently-sized table. All of the evidence from the Appraiser case was spread out, within easy reach.

The most curious piece of evidence was the fact that each man had been wearing an engagement ring, sized for them. There was really no rhyme or reason to that, which should have made it easier to find the nutcase behind the killings. Unfortunately, it was harder than predicted. No jeweler in the city knew who'd been buying engagement rings, or two karat diamonds, in the past year. There were also no records, and all of the jewelers in the city had alibis that cleared them of suspicion.

Sexton rubbed his eyes tiredly, turning another lamp on to brighten the area up a little. It was nearly midnight, and he was working overtime. (He was doing so willingly, a fact which had nearly caused the head of evidence to have a heart attack.) Something about this… The only thing each victim had in common, aside from ARK and the rings (which didn't point to anything, since they'd all been post-mortem additions), was that they'd made their visit to Psych anywhere between three weeks to an hour before vanishing off the face of the earth.

If he'd had a little more evidence than just a vague suspicion, Sexton would have dragged everyone from Psych—from the secretary all the way up to Doctor Samuels, Fleming's personal psychiatrist and physician—into interrogation until someone cracked. Unfortunately, all he had was a hunch. And hunches didn't get much wiggle room in ARK, even if there was a crisis on.

"Burning the midnight oil, Officer Sexton?"

Sexton looked up in surprise. _Speak of the Devil and He shall appear_, the officer mused. Doctor Samuels had come up to his small island of light, carrying his briefcase and a flashlight. The flashlight was a bit odd, seeing as the power never got turned off in ARK—with the rare exception of lockdown drills and training exercises for the hostage rescue teams. (Those guys were fucking insane, in Sexton's opinion. And they needed to be taken down a few dozen pegs, the bastards.)

"Yeah," Sexton yawned, stretching. He'd been up since two that morning, doing the usual bodyguard duty for Trip Faraday and his paperwork at ARK afterwards. His paperwork was nearly non-existent these days, thanks to all the free time he now had. Searching the evidence from the case was just a spare hobby he indulged in, seeing as he wasn't (officially) supposed to be on the case anymore. He'd run out of coffee a few hours ago, and hadn't bothered to make any more.

"Still looking for leads?" Samuels asked in his usual grandfatherly tone. It gave Sexton the creeps, to borrow a term from his sixteen-year-old stepdaughter. The man was setting off all sorts of alarms in his head, but that was probably because his last psych eval had left an inerasable black mark on his record. (Samuels had suggested that Sexton had a few critical screws loose, and needed to be put on leave for the foreseeable future. Sexton had thrown a book at the man and left the office in a black mood. So… Alright, maybe Samuels had a point there.)

"Mmhm," Sexton mumbled, rubbing a hand across his eyes. He really needed some sleep. The security officer frowned at the shadows on his desk, sure he was seeing something, and turned around. Just in time to catch the flashlight across his face. His nose broke on impact, and his head snapped back in the follow-up blow.

Sexton fell to the ground, ears ringing and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He raised his arms to protect himself from another blow, wondering why he hadn't thought to bring his gun with him. Either Samuels had finally snapped, or he was intimately connected with the case in a very bad way.

Five minutes later, Sexton was sure Samuels was the serial killer. Unfortunately, he couldn't do much with a cracked skull, a concussion, and so many broken bones he couldn't begin to list them. The security officer watched through half-lidded eyes as the psychiatrist swept all of the evidence from the case into his briefcase.

"You…won't…get away…with…this," Sexton rasped weakly, trying to push himself up. If there was one thing he'd learned in his thirty years at ARK, it was that the job came first. The medical coverage would take care of the rest, and the pensions would always go to your family if you died on the job.

"It must be your team," Samuels said, voice tinged with irritation. He lifted the heavy metal flashlight again and brought it down across Sexton's face. The security officer fell to the ground, finally unconscious. His cheekbone had cracked, and a dark bruise was forming on his face. Sexton was unconscious in a pool of his own blood as the psychiatrist stepped over him, snapping the briefcase shut.

Samuels headed for the security office—unmanned at this hour of the night—whistling. He erased the security tapes, and peeled his gloves off after leaving the evidence room. Let ARK figure this one out. Maybe they'd blame this on Orwell…

- o – o -

There were times when Orwell wished she hadn't made it her personal mission to destroy ARK Corporation and Peter Fleming. This was one of them. She and Anarchy had been tearing through ARK's files, not having anything else to do. Both of them knew the two-week deadline was coming up quickly—only two days, actually, before Philips was dead. Trying to find evidence to track down his abductor wasn't supposed to be so hard, though. Wasn't ARK supposed to be better than this?

If Jamie hadn't been at odds with her father, she'd have told him he needed better security and investigators. This was…kind of ridiculous, if the brunette hacker had to be honest with herself. Even Vince wasn't this thick, and even _he_ needed help. (Hadn't he been a detective? Honestly. What a nightmare some days…)

But now... She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, trying to pull it back into some semblance of order. It wasn't working, and she couldn't summon up enough interest to care.

"Well…This is bad."

Orwell looked at Anarchy, one eyebrow raised. The man had the amazing ability to state the obvious some days.

"Of course it is," Orwell grumbled, propping her chin up in one hand. She was staring at the information on her screen, or rather, the _lack_ of information. Three hours ago, Anarchy had woken her up. Orwell had been prepared to brain the green-haired hacker with her coffee mug, until she learned what had happened.

Someone had—rather inexpertly, in Orwell's professional opinion, although a blunt instrument was just as good as a scalpel in cases like these—wiped the ARK servers, as they related to the serial killer. Fingerprints, statements, forensic evidence, coroner reports… All gone. Anarchy had given her a thermos of coffee, and they'd set to work, trying to piece it back together from whatever fragments remained. It…wasn't working. The blunt instrument in question hadn't simply cut out the information so much as simply…erased it. Or smashed it into tiny little pieces that weren't coming back together, but either way.

It wasn't good.

"So…we're back at square one, minus the reports we printed off a few days ago?" Anarchy asked, staring at his laptop, which was perched on his lap. He had his feet propped up on the command center, one leg crossed over the other.

"And those aren't even complete," Orwell grumbled, shooting a dark look at her empty thermos.

"What's not complete?"

Both hackers looked up at the sudden intrusion into their grumbling. Vince had come into the hideout, wearing a pair of running shorts and a tanktop that was soaked in sweat. He'd been on his usual run, although the duffel bag over one shoulder told Orwell that he'd carried his costume with him, just in case.

The brunette hacker shoved aside the hormones that were sitting up and taking notice of just how _firm_ Vince's rear looked in those shorts. For one thing, she had to explain the loss of information. For another thing, he was married…and saw her as a little sister. (She'd _love_ for him to see her as something more, but he was more likely to proclaim his undying love for her father first. And Jamie didn't think she'd be able to handle having Vince as a stepfather, because then he'd be _really_ unreachable.)

"Ummm…." Orwell mumbled, trying to stall for time.

"All of our information just got wiped out of the ARK servers," Anarchy cut in, earning himself a dark scowl from Orwell. He smiled at her, and turned his attention back to Vince. "It shouldn't take too long, but we might be able to recover the stuff off the surveillance cameras to see who stole it."

Vince grunted. "Huh. That explains a lot, actually," he clarified.

"Oh no."

"Yep," Vince replied, tossing his copy of the _Palm City Herald_ down on the command center. The headline blared the theft across the front page, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind as to what had happened.

"Well shit," Orwell and her male counterpart chorused in unison.

"Oh, I don't know," Vince replied. "I think it's worse: The angry mobs are starting to write music for their march on ARK Towers."

Even if Vince was joking, it didn't make Orwell feel any better.

- o – o -

Peter Fleming paced around his office, waiting for his psychiatrist to come in. He'd summoned the bastard here an hour ago, and the man still hadn't arrived. The billionaire was becoming incensed, and even Chess wasn't helping. (The psychopath wanted to hunt the shrink down and gut him, before dancing on the man's corpse. Not that that wasn't an appealing idea, but…)

_Let me drive,_ Chess said in a wheedling tone of voice. Peter made a mental note to get a new psychiatrist instead. _You're no fun_, the psychopath grumbled. _And I want Samuels' head on a plate_.

"That," Peter murmured, "I will be happy to arrange." He leaned against the desk, fixing his usual pleasant photo-op smile in place. Charles was leading the traitorous, murderous psychiatrist with him. The billionaire pushed Chess back as far as he could, wanting no distractions at the moment.

"Peter, I was surprised to get your message," Samuels said pleasantly, in lieu of one of his usual greetings. Fleming remembered the man using the same tone from childhood visits. It had unnerved him then, and unnerved him now—more so than usual, if his suspicions were right. "Is something wrong?"

"Why don't _you_ explain that?" Fleming replied, tone frigid with anger. He crossed his arms over his chest, well aware that it read as a hostile gesture. Samuels was _not_ welcome here, not at the moment.

"Explain what?" Samuels asked, smiling as he sat down in his usual seat. He looked at ease with himself.

_Something's wrong, Peter…_ Chess murmured warningly, a note of worry in his voice.

"Sexton was beaten into a coma yesterday evening. All of the evidence is missing. You were seen heading to the evidence room." The billionaire's tone brokered no dissent, and demanded answers immediately, or else.

Samuels smiled at Fleming. "When you have proof," he said, standing up and picking up his briefcase, "I'll be prepared to listen."

Fleming pulled the gun out of his desk and pointed it at Samuels. With a quiet mental sigh, he let Chess take the driver's seat.

"_Oh, I don't think we will,_" Chess purred, a look of menace on his face. He smiled at Samuels, showing all his teeth. "_Peter isn't here right now, and he's not telling me to be gentle…_"

Samuels raised an eyebrow. "Oh dear, whatever will I do?" he said. The lack of concern in his voice set off all sorts of alarm bells in Chess' mind. "If you ever want to find Philips, or anything else, you and Peter will let me walk out of this building… Right. _Now_." He smiled at Chess, who growled something obscene.

"_I don't think—_"

"Red skies at morning," Samuels interrupted. Chess stared at him for a few seconds.

"_What?_" the criminal mastermind snarled.

"Sailors take warning." The psychiatrist watched in satisfaction as the mastermind dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. He knelt down next to the younger man's head, a smile on his face. "The last time you tried to shoot me, it didn't end so well, Peter." Samuels patted Peter's face gently. "And you don't even remember what I did to you. But Chess does, doesn't he?"

Samuels gave Peter a triumphant-looking smirk as he stepped over him on his way to the exit. "Good bye, Peter."

The billionaire couldn't even voice his frustration at his current predicament. He was trapped in his own mind…and didn't even know why. It wasn't very comforting.

- o – o -

By the time Samuels reached his car, smoke was practically coming out his ears. His timetable had been thrown completely off, and all his plans were now for naught. He'd been meaning to save the trigger for when he could _finally_ excise Chess from his charge's psyche, but instead, he'd been forced to use it to escape.

He'd been hoping to make the most of Philips' last few days, but…

The psychiatrist shrugged mentally as he pulled onto the interstate.

Sometimes, plans had to change.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Waiting to see what's going to happen to Samuels? Drop a line and let me know!


	16. I'm Already There

Hey, it's a new chapter! ARK gets it's act together, and Jamie has a tender moment with her daddy.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter sixteen: I'm Already There

Charles Holt hadn't worked for Peter Fleming for years without gaining some measure of power in ARK Corporation. Fleming himself had implied that his assistant's orders were just as good as his, should he (Fleming) be incapacitated beyond his ability to give said orders. It helped that Charles was quite good with public relations and stretching money further than should have been possible. He also had an organizational mind like a steel trap.

So, when it was discovered that Fleming _was_ incapacitated beyond his ability to continue running the company, ARK turned to Charles, instead of the Board of Directors. (And, quite honestly, the board was only there to appease the public; most of them were useless timewasters looking for a hefty paycheck. The best minds in ARK were division heads who answered directly to Fleming, Charles, or the nearest appointed representative Fleming had on hand.)

The assistant drew a lot of odd looks when he sat down in Fleming's spot at the emergency meeting. And then he told the assembled heads of security and the newest chief of police (some little rat named Mick Reese, whom no one liked very much and was hoping got killed) why he was there instead of their employer. All hell broke loose.

"Settle down, please," Charles said, calm as ever. There was a rumor going around that he was on serious sedatives that made him as calm as he was, or that he'd been recruited from the CIA or MI6 (more likely MI6, given that Fleming was British). Whatever the reason was, people quieted down instantly when Charles gave them an order.

"We have less than forty-eight hours, if the data we still have access to is correct, to rescue Officer Philips," Charles continued. "Mr. Fleming is currently out of commission, but his physician says he will make a full recovery within the next week. No, he is not in any danger of dying, Walton." The last bit was directed to the CFO of the company, who, while he performed the singularly spectacular role of keeping the accountants and their department running smoothly, was a greedy bastard who'd had his eye on becoming the CEO for years. Charles was second in line for that honor, after Miss Fleming, of course. None of the Board of Directors was anywhere near becoming the CEO, even the temporary one were neither Fleming available.

"Where do you suggest we start?" Sawyer spoke up from his spot at the very end of the table. He was the duly elected representative of the security teams, which, despite their name, had nothing at all to do with the police force controlled by ARK.

"Given where our information is pointing," Charles replied, "I suggest we start with the offices and home of Doctor Nathaniel Samuels."

Surprisingly enough, no one argued with the suggestion.

- o – o -

Sawyer led the team that raided Samuels' home on Gold Beach. Given the neighborhood's proximity to the docks and Trolley Park, one wouldn't have expected it to be as upscale as it was. But that was Palm City—you could have squalor right next to a shining palace, and no one would comment. Samuels lived right on the border, although the ten-foot high brick fence surrounding his property probably helped keep the denizens of Trolley Park out.

The gate came down easily. It probably helped that the drivers of the two hummers used for barricade ramming had put pedal to the metal to break it down. (They'd been called back from Iraq for causing excessive property damage. In this case, ARK was quite happy to look the other way.) Within minutes, the ARK soldiers had spread out over the property like a horde of black beetles, rifling through everything they could get their hands on. Cadaver dogs had been brought in, as had the forensics team with some of the newer models of a Ground-penetrating Radar system. (It wasn't due on the general market for another year, but the forensics teams swore by it.)

Across town in the business district, the same thing—minus the hummers—was happening at Samuels' office. The only difference was that the fire department had gotten there first, and was attempting to salvage the building the office was housed in. It was mostly a losing battle, and the fire chief sadly informed Chief Reese that anything recovered from the premises would be a charred mess, and of use to no one. Whoever had set the fire had known what he or she was doing.

It was only an hour later, when the fires were put out, that Samuels' secretary was discovered in his main office, tied to a chair. Judging by the look on her face, she'd been burned alive. Samuels had another murder added to his record, although this was the only one the arson squad could determine was completely his. The Appraiser Murders were still speculation at this point, but everyone knew it was Samuels.

Reese, for possibly the first time in a year, grew a spine. The press room at ARK had done enough damage already. When the first microphone was shoved in his face, Reese turned to the camera, glared, and said "No comment". Normally, Reese would have been the first one to give the press a comment, just because he could.

The second reporter was summarily arrested for interfering in an investigation. After that, the press cleared out pretty quickly. The ARK detectives pawing through the debris for any clues that might have survived the inferno all gave Reese the first respectful salutes of his career as he got into his car to head over to the other side of the city to check on the situation there, so he could make his report back to the temporary head of ARK.

Back at Samuels' home, the troops had discovered a library, hidden behind a false wall in the man's bedroom. The investigator in charge of evidence had spent a good ten minutes out on the lawn, retching, after going over the room with the Advance Light Source—ALS, or a blacklight for the extreme layman. No one wanted to ask, but they all suspected the same thing—bodily fluids and god knew what else. The leader of the team tearing the room apart advised everyone to wear gloves and face masks, and offered to spot everyone six or so rounds of beers after the case was wrapped up.

No one argued.

The problems really started coming when the videos were discovered. Someone had to watch them to go over the evidence, and no one was volunteering. Sawyer came up with the solution and cut a few flowers out of the immaculately tended flowerbeds. It wasn't exactly manly, but one of the newer transfers, a poor soul from Europe named Saul Stoykova, got the short straw. Everyone offered to pay into the pool for his therapy; they were being serious.

Several hours later, the teams had finished cataloguing evidence from both sites. Stoykova had been let off shift after he started babbling in his native language, far too fast for anyone to understand, including his translator. His reports had been turned in for him, and he was quietly put on medical leave for the foreseeable future. There was a wave of sympathy for the man as he was sedated. Given what they'd already seen from the now-missing crime scene photos, they didn't need to fill in too many blanks to guess.

Sawyer watched the last crime scene van rumble away, well past dusk. He and Reese were the only ones left at the house, aside from the three men responsible for keeping it locked down until a suitable press conference could be arranged and reporters could be let in to examine it. Sawyer, at least, had the fortitude not to jump when the Cape appeared out of nowhere. He reached over and disabled Reese's radio before the other man could call in a team to arrest the vigilante.

"What do you want, Cape?" he asked pleasantly, sitting down on the steps leading up to the wraparound porch. Sawyer looked far more casual then he felt, and that was saying something. Considering that the vigilante he and Reese were _not_ arresting was standing so close to them, it was saying something.

"You need help," the vigilante rasped. Sawyer idly wondered if he ate gravel while watching Batman movies, or if it was just a masked vigilante thing. "I can help."

"And why should we take your word for that?" Reese snarled right back. Sawyer wondered if he could pin the shooting on the Cape. Nah. It wasn't worth it—what would Fleming do without another convenient scapegoat?

"Because I know, roughly," the vigilante rasped, "Where your quarry may be hiding."

Sawyer raised an eyebrow. "And what's stopping me from beating a confession out of you?"

The Cape looked at Sawyer for a few seconds, lips twitching. Then he threw his head back and laughed. Something about the laugh—like a jackal or a hyena—made Sawyer stare at the vigilante, a trickle of ice running down his spine. He'd been near a guy who laughed like that while he set things on fire or blew them up. It…hadn't been pleasant, actually. He'd been in therapy afterwards, for nearly a year.

The vigilante stopped laughing. "I have a stake in this too," the Cape rasped.

That had Sawyer and Reese sharing a look. One of the victims _had_ been married to another man, one who's identity had never been discovered. But… Nah. The Cape would have appeared at least three years ago if that had been the case. And he wouldn't have been going after ARK either. (Sawyer personally though the vigilante had lost his son or something—maybe even his wife and kids, which was why he was so buddy-buddy with the Faraday widow and her son, Trip. That would factor into what Sexton _hadn't_ relayed in his reports…)

"Fine," Sawyer said abruptly, surprising both the vigilante and Chief Reese (allegedly his superior, but Sawyer wasn't part of the police force). "But you follow my orders, soldier, and you keep your head down around my men." Sawyer was a good few inches taller than the Cape, but skinnier. He was still able to loom over the man like he did with his step-daughter's boyfriends, though, which was a blessing.

"Just as long as I get my piece," the Cape responded evenly, blue eyes twinkling at some unknown joke. He vanished in a puff of smoke that had Sawyer on his knees, retching and gasping for air.

"Interesting person," Reese commented idly from his spot on the stairs.

"You have no idea," Sawyer wheezed.

- o – o -

Anarchy was the king of stupid ideas. He'd gained the title after mooning an ARK officer, who'd been trying to give him a ticket for double-parking. He liked stupid ideas—if everyone thought they were stupid, they were more likely to work. (Sadly, the hacker's logic had worked more than once, which made Orwell grudgingly admit he might have a point.) That being said, he was stumped when Orwell announced her new grand plan.

"You want to _what?_" Anarchy screeched, lemon-yellow dreadlocks bristling like porcupine quills. Orwell stared at him, unimpressed. She crossed her arms, looking a good deal more severe than a twenty-three-year-old should have been able to.

"I want to visit my father," Orwell stated evenly.

"But…but _why_?" Anarchy persisted. "Isn't he, you know, all evil and shit? I thought that was the point of your blog? To prove that he needed to be deposed and kicked around like a football, and then locked up for his crimes?" Orwell hated to admit it, but Anarchy was right. That _was_ kind of the point. The other hacker had no right to judge her for her plan though, considering what _he_ did on a daily basis.

"Because he's my father, and… Well," she shrugged, "despite everything, part of me still wants to be his ballerina." She stuck out her lower lip in what would inevitably turn into a pout. "I just want you to drive me, Gailord," Orwell added sweetly, using Anarchy's first name. It was guaranteed to get results the first fifteen times it was used. After that, his middle name—Eustace—had to be added in to get him motivated.

"You are a horrible bitch, Jamie," Anarchy grumbled, grabbing his keys from the desk he'd claimed as his. "Let's go."

"Thank you sweetie," Orwell—Jamie—said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. She had to stand on tiptoe, on a pile of books, to reach his cheek, but the resulting blush was worth it.

Anarchy, despite his wild appearance, drove a perfectly sensible Ford pickup truck. It was nondescript and a bit boring. Of course, if one pried the cover off the truck bed, they would have called the bomb squad, the cadaver dogs, the National Enquirer, and probably NASA, just to identify everything he kept back there.

Fifteen minutes later, Anarchy had pulled up to the service entrance of the private hospital Fleming was being kept at. Orwell shot Anarchy a nervous look as she got out of the cab. Anarchy sighed and smiled at her.

"I'll keep the motor running," Anarchy promised, before laying down across the bench seat. It wasn't enough to keep him hidden, but it would make it look more like one of the staff members had left their truck idling back there. (Or one of the delivery people had, but whatever.)

Orwell hurried up the stairs to the back door, shoving her blank keycard into the electronic lock. The algorithm in the data strip on the card worked furiously for a few seconds before the lock clicked open, admitting a "Doctor Hans Weismann" to the facility. Jamie had no idea who he was, but hoped he wouldn't get into too much trouble.

Once inside, the hacker changed into a pair of scrubs, stuffed her things into her backpack, and grabbed a clipboard. She was less likely to be stopped if it looked like she worked there. The hacker brought up her mental floor plan of the hospital, and began following it up the back stairwells to reach her father's room.

She was unprepared for the sight she saw. Her father, Peter Fleming, was hooked up to half a dozen machines, all of which were beeping softly. He'd been intubated to keep him breathing, as whatever Samuels had done to him seemed to have stopped his lungs from working without aid.

Orwell was shoved ruthlessly into the depths. Jamie didn't need to be the hacker right now, because her daddy needed her. Not the hacker, but his little ballerina. The twenty-three-year-old sat down on the uncomfortable plastic chair next to his bed, pulling one of his hands—the one without the IV line attached to it—into hers. It was warm and slightly rough to the touch, mostly from his fencing and (hopefully still secret) hobby of building small things.

Not many people knew it, but a lot of the wooden knickknacks in Peter Fleming's home were handmade by him. Only Jamie and his late wife, Danielle, knew that he enjoyed woodcarving. Jamie and Danielle had both enjoyed watching him carve something so that it took shape beneath his hands. One of Jamie's earliest memories was sitting, half-curled up in his lap, watching as Peter carved a ballerina figurine to go in the music box he'd found at an estate sale earlier that month. He'd laughed as she'd exclaimed in horror over the fact that he'd cut his thumb open while carving.

Jamie's hand found the nick on his thumb, and she smiled as she traced the cut with her own thumb, lost in the memory. After a few minutes, the hacker lost her composure and broke down sobbing, burying her face in the mattress next to her father's pillow.

"Please wake up, daddy," she whispered, voice muffled by the stiff white sheets.

She couldn't be sure if it was just her imagination, but Jamie swore that—just for a second—her father's hand tightened around hers. That assured Jamie that, despite everything, it was going to be alright.

Even if it was just her imagination.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Want to give Jamie a hug and tell her everything will be okay? Drop a line and let me know.


	17. For All The Wrong Reasons

Hey, it's a new chapter! Fleming wakes up.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter seventeen: For All The Wrong Reasons

Finding Doctor Samuels was a matter of some urgency, so the lack of information—even from the suspiciously helpful Orwell and the madman Anarchy—was a bit…_annoying_. The ARK personnel assigned to finding his hideout had combed through every bit of paperwork that could possibly be involved, and had even co-opted every intern in the building to help. Nothing had worked. There were no records in Samuels' files to indicate that he'd bought property anywhere but his home in Gold Beach and the office that had been burned. (The teams had gone through the secretary's files too, thinking she might have known something if Samuels had gone to the trouble of burning her with the building, but nothing had been there either.)

By the following evening, Sawyer had given up. The Cape's vague hint had petered out to nothing. (Okay, it'd narrowed the search down to about a hundred square miles, but it was on a mountain, in a forest, with several mine shafts buried in the side of the mountain.) The security captain was about ready to throw a chair—or himself—out the window in frustration by eight pm. His bad mood had been made worse by the fact that he had to coordinate security on the Faraday woman and Trip after the two were moved into protective custody at ARK Towers while Samuels was still on the loose. It wasn't helping anything.

Sawyer sighed and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He'd been up since two the previous morning, and had been running on coffee and pure adrenaline. It wasn't a good combo, and he was wearing out. The final straw was probably Mrs. Faraday coming into his office. She was dressed in the same dark blue suit she'd been wearing when she'd been escorted out of the public defender's office.

"Yes, Mrs. Faraday?" Sawyer sighed wearily. He really didn't need a lecture on legality at this point, not when one of his men was missing, or when his best friend was in a coma, or even when his boss was in a coma.

"I…heard you were looking for Samuels," Dana replied quietly, sitting down across from him. She crossed her legs at the ankles—ladylike and proper—and sat back, apparently waiting for him to make the next move.

Sawyer rubbed his temples and nodded, closing his eyes. He really needed to take a nap; any more coffee, and his wife and doctor would kill him.

"I…may know something," Dana said, chewing her lower lip nervously. "About where he could be hiding."

Sawyer sat up, eyebrows raised. He grabbed a pad of paper and a pen, waiting to take notes.

"It was…back when Trip was still going to therapy with…with Doctor Samuels," the public defender started. "We were discussing treatment, and places where he could be treated. We agreed on his office because it was more public, and well…I thought Trip would feel safer there. But Samuels did suggest his home, and…" She trailed off.

"Yes?" Sawyer said encouragingly.

"Samuels also mentioned that he had another place, where he treated violent patients… It was in the state park, I think?"

Sawyer was pretty sure six gallons of coffee wouldn't have given him this much energy at this point. The Cape had narrowed down the location to the side of a mountain, which included a small chunk of the state park. Dana Faraday—who was probably the Cape's wife, if his suspicions were right—had narrowed it down to about a square mile, maybe less once he checked a map.

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Faraday," Sawyer breathed as she left the room. He leaned back in his chair, running his hands through his hair. The security officer let out a relieved laugh and punched in the number for the research team. Now that they had a smaller area to work in, they could find that fucking cabin and send Samuels straight to the Gates of Hell. (Well, the lawyers would have to give him a fair trial, but fuck it, they'd finally get the bastard!)

Sawyer sent off the relevant information to the search and rescue teams in the area, breathing a sigh of relief at last. The security captain stood up, running his hands through his hair with a grimace. He needed more coffee, and there were some people he needed to give the good word too. The man grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and headed for the elevator, steps lighter than they'd been in almost two weeks. There was very little that could dampen his good mood at this point, he was sure.

Half an hour later, Sawyer was at the private hospital that provided the care for ARK employees. Peter Fleming had had the place built about…ten years ago, maybe. The hospital provided the best care in the tri-state area, and there were rumors that heads of state flew in to use it on occasion. (Sawyer knew this, because he'd had to provide security on a few of those occasions. It was a logistical nightmare.) Now, however, there were two people he needed to talk to.

Sexton was first on his list. The other man was in a medically-induced coma to keep him from aggravating his injuries. To see him lying on a hospital bed, surrounded by monitors and medical equipment, was strange. Sawyer was used to Sexton being the crazy headstrong leader of the assault teams, who occasionally deigned to help the police arm of ARK Corporation out of boredom. Sawyer sat down next to his bedside, trying not to look at the neck brace, or the IV lines, or the soft restraints around his friend's wrists and ankles, meant to keep him immobilized in case the drugs wore off. (Not that that would happen, but it was always a possibility.)

"Well, Tom," Sawyer said, stretching his legs out in front of himself. "We've almost got the bastard that tried to kill you. He's going down tonight, and we're going to have him—or what's left of him—in custody by tomorrow morning. Hey," he added brightly, "maybe you'll be awake when we get to haul Samuels into court to slaughter him."

The security officer sat next to his friend's bedside for a few more minutes, listening to the machines beep softly. He sighed and stood up. "See you tomorrow, Tom, if all goes well. I have to go check on our boss." Sawyer smiled at his friend and left the room, tucking his hat under his arm. He hated the uniform, but it got results with the hospital staff.

Sawyer paused in the doorway to Fleming's room, studying the situation. A girl he didn't recognize was sitting next to the billionaire's bedside, holding his hand. She was half-asleep, by the looks of it, and was resting her head on the mattress. The security officer's training took over and he undid the clasp on his holster, just in case.

As he stepped into the room, the girl woke up, blinking sleep out of her eyes. Sawyer froze, one hand on his service pistol.

"Um…this isn't what it looks like?" Jamie Fleming said, smiling sheepishly. Sawyer rubbed his eyes with one hand, feeling a headache coming on.

Oh, _this_ was going to be fun to write down in his report…

- o – o -

Jamie had shoved her Orwell persona as far down as she could make it go since being discovered by Sawyer. She was polite, sweet, and about ready to claw her own eyes out because she couldn't snark. Jamie was a sweet, girl-next-door girl—despite being filthy rich; she couldn't be connected to Orwell, even if everyone was under the assumption that Orwell was a guy. (At least they didn't think she and Anarchy were having sex. That was just _wrong_.)

She was dressed in regular clothes now, nursing a mug of cocoa and a thick book. Anarchy had left an hour ago, muttering about keeping Vince from doing something stupid on the day that Philips was most likely going to end up dead. Not that anyone would find out if Philips had been killed, though, considering that the dump site was being too closely watched for anyone to actually go near it. Hell, even the reporters were avoiding it for the time being, and _they_ were human vultures.

Jamie sighed, rubbing her eyes tiredly. It had been a long two weeks. She looked over at her father, still sleeping the sleep of the drugged. She'd have curled up next to him on the bed, just to make sure his heart was still beating and hadn't been replaced by a machine, but the stuff keeping him alive was in the way. The hacker ran a hand over his face, fighting back tears as she came in contact with the tube that was keeping him breathing.

_It wasn't fair. Why did Samuels have to attack her father? Why couldn't he have just left?_

The hacker knew, realistically, that whining and raging against an entity that didn't exist was kind of stupid. It wasn't effective, and it didn't do anything it should have. All she _could_ do was wait. Wait and see, and hope that he'd wake up none the worse for wear.

Half an hour later, Jamie was ready to leave for the day. She couldn't do anything unless cybernetics suddenly made a great leap, and sitting here wasn't helping catch Samuels. The hacker sighed and stood up, closing her book with a snap. Wodehouse would wait for tomorrow. Jamie bent down and kissed her father on the forehead, blinking back tears when he didn't even twitch.

Just as she was leaving, the hacker turned back. She hadn't imagined it this time. She had _definitely_ heard something. Jamie turned back to look at her father, jaw dropping in shock as she saw her father blinking. Jamie closed her jaw with a click, and wondered just when her father's eyes had gotten so blue.

"Daddy…?"

- o – o -

Sawyer sat on the hood of his patrol car, waiting for the Cape to get his costumed ass to the staging area. He was pretty sure the vigilante couldn't teleport, or he'd have left the man a map with directions stapled to it and left. This was their one chance to get Philips back, and Sawyer wasn't going to give up an extra set of eyes…no matter how much he personally hated the Cape.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Sawyer jumped, biting off a yelp before he could voice it. He turned around to glower at the vigilante standing behind him. The security officer's mood only got worse when he saw that the bastard was smirking. "Are you River Tam, or something?" Sawyer growled, sliding off the hood. He grabbed his helmet off the roof of the car and pulled it on, not bothering to wait for the vigilante's reply.

"Who?"

"Never mind," Sawyer grumbled as he got into the car. "Get in or find some way to follow us quickly," he added to the vigilante. "We're rolling out."

"I've got a motorcycle," the vigilante replied.

"Of course he does," Sawyer muttered as he turned the Humvee on. The convoy made a strange sight as it rolled down the interstate, Sawyer was sure. At least half a dozen news vans were following after them, which was drawing even more attention. Thanks to some ARK technology the R&D boys (and girls) had cooked up the night before, no one was going to be broadcasting this until _after_ the operation. Freedom of the press was all well and good, but not when someone's life was at stake. Sawyer could just imagine the howls of outrage that were popping up in the news vans as they realized they couldn't send out any information. The area affected was only a few miles… Why were they complaining?

An hour later, the main strike force had arrived at Samuels' cabin, which had been discovered earlier that day by the search teams. It was a modest affair, only one story tall. The cabin looked more like a hunting lodge, but appearances could be deceiving. The search team with the ground-penetrating radar had reported that there was a massive basement underneath the lodge. It was probably where Philips was being held, if he was still alive. If everything worked out like it was supposed to, then ARK would get Samuels and recover their missing man.

They had too much at stake to lose now.

The first team went in the back, tossing tear gas canisters into the back rooms. The second team destroyed the front door as they went in, spreading out to check every room in the house. The gas masks helped in that regard, as did the infrared goggles they were wearing. Every eventuality had been planned for, as best as it could be. If Samuels was in the house, the second team was going to get him. If he wasn't, well… That was what the third team was for.

In all honesty, Sawyer was kind of hoping that Samuels wasn't in the house. He was on the third team, and his team got to use the heavy weaponry. Alright, they were supposed to give fair warning to Samuels _before_ opening fire, but that was why they'd turned their helmet cams off. And if Samuels was dead, well. No one could say they'd shot before announcing their intent, could they?

Sawyer was perched on top of the Humvee, peering down the scope. He was a qualified sniper, even after thirty years and two surgeries to correct his vision. His spotter was in the hospital in a coma, though, which meant that he had to rely on his scope instead of accurate information. Hopefully there wouldn't be too much of a delay…

-_The house is clear, sir. Doesn't look like anyone's been here in the past hour ._-

Sawyer muttered a few choice swearwords under his breath. "Check it again!" he barked. There were a few seconds of quiet, before…

-_Sir, there is _no one_ here. We even checked the basement, knocked down a few walls… By the way, could someone send a few crime scene teams over here? We've got a few…situations._-

"Situation? Why does that not fill me with confidence?"

-_Long story or short story, sir?_- was the reply. Sawyer made a mental note to hurt the kid, Goren or Graeme or something, later. A lot.

"Just explain it," he growled over the mike, peering down his scope again. The night vision helped, although the shade of green it turned everything was making him a little nauseous.

-_The old, scary bastard has a torture cellar, sir. Looks like he was keeping people down here while he cut them apart. Oh, and his upstairs drawing room has jars with a nice collection of eyes. Wow, that's disgusting…_-

Sawyer felt that puking wouldn't be out of place at that point. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, wondering if his headache would clear up. If another man's life wasn't at stake, Sawyer would have indulged in a moment of self-pity and complained that he was getting too old for things like this. But Philips, if he was still alive and fighting, was counting on them. No self-pity until he visited a shrink. Not a company shrink, though; they tended to get pissy when he and Sexton threw things at them. Although private shrinks might get pissier, come to think of it… Crud.

-_Second team, reporting in. We've got movement._-

Sawyer sat bolt upright at that, swinging his rifle mount around so that it rested between his legs. It wasn't a delicate position, and would have been better suited to a machine gun or a rocket launcher, but it would serve his purpose well enough. The security officer listened to the radio chatter with growing trepidation, including the warning shots that everyone on the channel could hear. Sawyer half-wondered if they'd shot Samuels, which would be a pity—mostly because he wanted to do it himself.

-_It's Samuels, Boss,_- Gram—no, _Graeme_! That was his name—Graeme said over the com. –_Philips is nowhere in sight, and this bastard isn't… Holy _shit_!_-

The security officer bit his lip to keep from chuckling as he looked through his scope towards Team Two. The Cape had appeared out of nowhere, and seemed to be questioning Samuels. Well, _questioning_ was the polite way to put it in a report. Sawyer wondered how they were going to explain the bruises and froze as the vigilante locked his hands around the psychiatrist's throat and slammed the older man against the wall.

Sawyer took off running, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and trying not to start cursing out loud. "Cape!" he roared, slamming into the vigilante, just as Samuels began choking. "Stand down, soldier! Killing him isn't going to save Philips, damn it!"

Okay, so the vigilante didn't actually care for Philips. That didn't exactly concern Sawyer at the moment, because he'd expected the vigilante to maintain _some_ awareness of the situation at hand. Hell, he could beat Samuels up all he wanted…as long as he waited until _after_ Philips was safe and sound.

"That bastard…_tortured_…" Sawyer stared at the Cape, who's voice was breaking. He didn't want to admit it, but the badass vigilante who scared the crap out of everyone…was _crying_. "_Samuels treated my _son!"

Sawyer was instantly glad that the vigilante was speaking too quietly for anyone else to hear. He was also very glad that he didn't have his helmet cam on or recording. Somehow, knowing that Vince Faraday was alive and well—and running around in stupid tights—just seemed… Well, it'd get him killed.

"Pull yourself together, soldier," Sawyer hissed, shaking the vigilante a little. "We still have a mission to complete!"

The vigilante nodded and shot a look of pure malice at Samuels, who was rubbing his throat. Sawyer released the Cape from the deathgrip he had on the mantle, although he kept one hand on the younger man's shoulder, just in case he tried to do something stupid. Like killing Samuels.

"How delightful to see you here, Officer Sawyer," Samuels rasped as he stood up. He smiled. "I'm afraid you won't find what you're looking for. It's a bit late for that."

Sawyer's blood froze in his veins as the smile on Samuels' face registered in his brain.

"You! Son! Of! A! Bitch!" Sawyer roared, leaping at the psychiatrist and hitting every bit of the man he could reach. In a not-so-stunning turn of events, it was the Cape who had to pull the irate security officer away from the perp, to prevent any lasting damage. At least one of the members of the second team was taking pictures on their cell phone, mostly for blackmail later. Mostly.

"Now who's out of control?" the Cape said, a light smile on his face. He smiled widely at the rude gesture Sawyer gave him, before turning to face the psychiatrist. The vigilante stood still for several minutes, just studying the man. He swore and took off in the direction Samuels had come from. Naturally, the people not keeping Samuels confined took off after him. Sawyer shot one last hateful look at the psychiatrist before he took off in hot pursuit of the Cape.

Five minutes later, he found out why the Cape had taken off so quickly. There was a shovel leaning against one of the pine trees, showing signs of recent use. The sudden frenetic energy that gripped the ARK troops could have powered Palm City for at least a decade. The men tore off in all directions, looking for any sign of recently-disturbed earth or even any sign that Samuels had come this way.

"I found something!"

Everyone gravitated towards the trooper who'd yelled. The man was standing at the edge of what looked like a fresh grave—or six—with an expression of fear on his face. If Samuels had dug this, and only just returned… How long did they have to dig this up, and still search for Philips?

As it turned out, twenty-nine men could dig pretty fast.

It took fifteen minutes, but they eventually came to the bottom of the pit. There was a plastic garbage bag—one about large enough to hold a full-grown man if they were bent in half. It took six men to lift it out. Sawyer cut the bag open, and almost broke down sobbing in relief.

Philips was curled into a fetal position, wrists and ankles taped. His lips and eyelids were blue from lack of oxygen, but he was still alive. The wheezing was enough to let them know that.

Completely abandoning all decorum, Sawyer pulled the younger man into a hug, sobbing in relief. His mantra of "thank god" was quietly repeated by everyone there.

Philips was still alive.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Happy that Fleming and Philips are both (subjectively) okay? Drop a line and let me know!


	18. Epilogue:  Live Like You Were Dying

Holy moly, another story ended. The loose threads are wrapped up, and everyone gets what they deserve.

At this point, I would like to thank my reviewers who've stuck through this story (now about 40,000 some words): WtchCool and Orwell-Is-Watching_xoxo.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Epilogue: Live Like You Were Dying

A week after Philips was rescued, his doctor brought him out of the medically-induced coma. The surgery to repair the damage done to his wrists and ankles had necessitated keeping him comatose, mostly so they didn't have to resort to restraints to keep him from moving around. The team who'd gone into the basement to collect evidence had informed the doctors that trying to put their colleague in restraints would be a bad idea for everyone involved. The doctors had agreed, after a nice, polite conversation.

The first person Philips saw when he woke up was Kia. He was happy that she didn't slap him in the face for not calling to say he'd be late, two weeks ago. They spent the next four hours just talking. Kia left the hospital room in tears, wearing a brand new sparkly engagement ring. No one saw her for the next two days, although it became apparent _why_ when Philips held a press conference.

From his hospital bed, Philips looked a bit like a corpse. His press conference was a bit of a surprise to everyone who tuned in. They'd expected the man to plead for Samuels to be let go, or something. (Stockholm Syndrome wouldn't have surprised anyone, if they were honest.) Everyone who watched felt their jaw hit the floor.

Philips leaned against his pillows, watching the cameras with an indescribable look on his face. Finally, he began speaking. "A little over a year ago, I helped frame Vince Faraday. At the time, I was working for a man everyone here knows as Chess." The silence in the room was deafening for a few minutes, and then the questions came rolling in like a massive thunderstorm. The security officer waited for the furor to die down before continuing.

"At the time, I was being blackmailed. Chess is good at that—no matter how hard you try to bury the skeletons in your closet, that freak will dig them up." He paused, staring off into space. "When I was fifteen, I was involved in drugs. Big time—I was an addict, I ran drugs for anyone who'd get me a fix, and I was a lookout. My dad pulled me out and got me to clean my act up before I ended up in jail. I thought it was buried until about eight years ago, when Chess began blackmailing me to work for him. I wasn't the only one. But I'm saying now, that I won't work for him anymore. Everyone watching the press conference knows that I used to be an addict. I've already informed my fiancé, so it's no use trying to use her to get to me. And if Chess ever comes near me again, I'm going to take a leaf out of Doctor Whackjob's book and dig his eyes out with a spoon."

On the other side of town, Peter Fleming watched the press conference from his bedroom.

_Boy's got balls_, Chess said with a note of awe in his voice. And Philips had obviously learned that the best lies had a grain of truth in them. Chess _had_ been blackmailing Philips… But he hadn't even _known_ about the drugs.

"Yes he does," Fleming agreed, sipping his coffee. "Damn."

_I concur_.

In Trolley Park, Vince sat sandwiched between Raia and Ruvi, watching the press conference with his jaw hanging open. The rest of the carnies' faces mirrored his. It was hard not to be amazed, after all. Philips, an employee of ARK—and thus, an employee of Chess—had just told the criminal mastermind to go fuck himself. Bets were placed on how long Philips would last after this conference was over. Expectations were not very high.

Vince jumped as his phone rang. He answered it, and listened to Dana. After ten minutes, he interrupted her. "Don't worry, Dana, I'll come home. I promise." For the first time in weeks, Vince smiled.

Dana Faraday was also watching the press conference from her apartment. Jack, Rollo (the carnival's strongman), and Trip were with her. Their game of scrabble lay forgotten on the coffee table as they watched Philips casually tear apart Chess' power structure within ARK Corporation. Dana could only hope her idiotic husband would get the message and finally come back to life.

She kind of doubted he'd do it right away, though.

- o – o -

Over the next few weeks, Philips' press conference was circulated and re-circulated until everyone wanted to shoot whoever decided it was the best thing to run. The press conference was thrown by the wayside when Jamie Fleming appeared in public after a six year absence, sporting a boyfriend and a new haircut. She was reportedly heard muttering that she was going to murder someone named Gailord, but the press couldn't turn up anything on the man.

Peter Fleming was readmitted to the hospital due to stress-related health issues. The press speculated that it was meeting his daughter's boyfriend, a man named Rollo. (There was no indication as to whether it was his first name or last name, and no one wanted to question him on that.) Jamie and Rollo were quite happy together in public and, although it took several months, the Fleming patriarch eventually came around and stopped trying to set his daughter up with the sons of his business associates and several of his employees (including, according to one source, Stoykova, who had finally recovered).

Samuels was eventually convicted. Even with over three-quarters of the evidence being deemed inadmissible due to unfairly prejudicial bias, the jury voted unanimously to convict him to life in prison. It was Philips' testimony that had done it. Everyone who'd watched him come into the courtroom in a wheelchair, one arm in a sling, had admitted that they thought he was playing his injuries up just a bit to get the former psychiatrist convicted. They didn't really care, but it was the principle of the matter.

The psychiatrist's cellmate, Dominic "Scales" Raoul, was later acquitted of murdering the man. The guards all swore that Scales had been putting up with extreme verbal abuse from his cellmate for six months before he snapped. Dana Faraday, his public defender, was only too happy to see the charges dropped. All of them, as it turned out. Her big break had come when Jack asked her if she'd found out if he'd been read his Miranda Rights. ARK stock prices took a massive hit when the information came out. Oddly enough, it also came out that only three percent of the company's stock was actually available for trading on the open market.

The press did eventually find out who was behind Chess. It seemed that several of the local criminals—not including Scales, despite what the citizens of Palm City would have liked to believe—had teamed up with Marty Voyt to create the criminal. Chess didn't actually exist, and was a series of low-level thugs paid to portray the criminal. The blackmail folders did exist, and corroborated Philips' information in the press conference nearly seven months beforehand.

Philips was quoted in the press as saying he hadn't known that Chess was more than one person, although it did make sense as to how the mastermind had known about his drug habit. In private, however, Philips would admit that the story was complete bullshit. Years later, when he'd retired from ARK Corporation, his journal was published. No one believed it, of course, because how could Peter Fleming, billionaire industrialist and philanthropist, have been Chess? (The journal was marketed as fiction, and Philips cheerfully told the press that most of the information had been manufactured to get his post-kidnapping psychiatrist to leave him alone. Fleming bought a copy and was reported to have enjoyed the book immensely.)

Vince and Dana eventually renewed their vows a year after he came back from the dead. Jamie and Rollo Fleming, the Carnival of Crime, and a young man with vibrantly blue cornrows attended the ceremony. Trip Faraday took pictures. Jack Kirchner was seen leaving the ceremony with Ellen Raia, one of the performers from the carnival. They were married nine months later, with a child following a year after that. Vince and Dana were quite pleased to accept the role of godparents.

The biggest explosion, of course, came when Trip introduced his parents to his girlfriend, Elizabeth Raoul.

But that's another story.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Enjoy the epilogue? Drop a line and let me know! Heck, let me know what your favorite part of the story was!

Author's note: I will be taking a one-week hiatus before posting a new story, tentatively entitled "Worth Possessing".


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